The Weasley Files
by ladyoftheknightley
Summary: An ongoing series of oneshots about my favourite family, the Weasleys! 23: Harry's ancestors make an appearance. 24: Ron's injured on an Auror mission. Hermione's not as upset as she might be. 25: Ginny washes Harry's hair. 26: After arriving at Shell Cottage, Ron needs a shoulder to cry on. 27: Ron's 18th birthday isn't entirely bad. 28. George celebrates Father's Day
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and everything associated are property of JK Rowling, not me, and even if you intend to sue me for copyright infringement, I am a student so red hair is not the only thing I share with the Weasleys...

**A/N: **this is going to be something of a dumping ground for all the fics I write about the Weasley family (and there are a _lot _of those because I love them so). They'll all be interconnected in as much as they'll be canon stories about the Weasley family, but other than that, there won't be any particular rhyme or reason to the order I post them, and they can be read in any order, too. So. Yeah. This should be updated with some frequency (shocker...) at first because I am still transferring all my fics from tumblr onto here (ladyknightley dot tumblr dot com if you're interested), and, as I said, I write about the Weasleys a lot...

* * *

_Prompt: Ginny and/or Hermione turn to fleur for advice when their relationship(s) head toward the next level_

"I mean, I know I should talk to my Mum about this sort of thing, but she's just...I don't know, she's kind of from a different generation."

"They do things differently, _non_?"

"They do! So just...well, thank you very much for helping me out."

"Pfft, it ees nothing. 'Ere is the potion, it should sort you out for now."

"Oh, _thank you_. I just had no idea who to turn to—like I said, I didn't want to ask Mum, and Hermione'd just tell Ron and then the rest of my brothers would find out and—Merlin, can you _imagine_?"

Fleur's response to this was lost in the scraping of a chair, and Bill felt—momentarily—guilty. He didn't mean to listen at doors, but he had to admit to being intrigued: though Fleur and Ginny got on much better now, he was still surprised to find there was something she'd talk to his wife about that she wouldn't share with her brothers or mother.

"Does it often hurt?" Fleur was asking now.

"Yes," came Ginny's response. "Sometimes a _lot _worse than others, but it always hurts."

Fleur hummed thoughtfully, and Bill pulled away from the closed kitchen door in alarm. It sounded like they were talking about...but no, they couldn't be. Could they?

"And it doesn't bother you that it 'as always been like this?"

"You mean, why haven't I mentioned anything about the pain before? Like I said, I don't really want to ask my Mum about it. And it's not like I think Hermione would tell the whole world, but she and Ron share _everything_ so I think she'd maybe let it slip at some point, by accident... Also, I have mentioned it a little to her before now but she says it doesn't hurt for her, so...well, it's alright for some!"

"Well, I am glad you feel you can ask me for 'elp," Fleur said gently. "I can share with you my...'ow you say...tips and tricks for making it easier, yes?" Bill's eyes narrowed. He was all for Fleur helping out Ginny in a sisterly way, but giving her advice on..._that_ was not something he could support. And they had to be talking about..._that_, didn't they?

He shuddered. He could barely think the word in relation to Ginny; he was _never_ going to have daughters.

"The thing is, it's been going on for years now," Ginny was saying conversationally.

Bill gaped, literally speechless. He had been planning on murdering Harry, but now it seemed there would be a whole host of boys that would have to be dealt with._Years_! She wasn't even seventeen yet!

"'Ave you considered a contraceptive potion?" Fleur inquired. Good on her, Bill found himself thinking, for taking this all so calmly. She was very good, his wife, very calm. She could cope with anything...

"I don't know," Ginny said. "Hermione did mention something about a muggle pill that can help, but..."

"Yes, some of my muggleborn friends at school explained that to me," Fleur said. "The potion works in a similar way, but this pill, I think you 'ave to take every day. The potion you take once a week, but it does the same thing. It is a...'ow to say...birth control method, but it can help in that other way. It eases things, makes them hurt less."

"Are you sure?" Ginny asked.

"Yes," Fleur responded at once. "I started it when I was fifteen, and it made things so less painful. It 'elped me so much. I can only recommend it to you."

"I hear what you're saying, I really do," said Ginny. "But I'm just a bit unsure about...well...I'm just not sure I should be taking contraceptives, you know? I just think that at my age—"

"If you are going to be doing _that_ with your boyfriend," Bill said, bursting into the room unable to stand it any longer, "you'd bloody well better make sure you're using contraceptives! You're far too young to be having sex, but if you _are_, you have to take responsibility. No babies! Not from you!"

Ginny and Fleur both shrieked when he barged in, and Ginny herself began to turn as red as he had ever seen her. "I—I'm not—" she began to stutter, but it was Fleur, looking more furious than she ever had before, who grabbed him by the arm and led him forcefully back into the hallway. She slammed the kitchen door shut, cast a _silencio_ and rounded on him before he had a chance to speak.

"You are _unbelievable_!" she said, and he physically backed away from her. "Your sister, she came to me because she is 'aving the problems with 'er...'ow you say...lady cycles, and she wanted me to 'elp! And you know, this ees the first time she opens up to me like this, and you barge in and embarrass 'er like that! 'Ow did you even know of what we were talking?! Did you listen at the door?"

Bill muttered something incomprehensible.

"You _did_! Oh, you are terrible! Your poor sister, she 'as things bad enough, and then you embarrass 'er and make assumptions, and you—_oh_! You are _terrible_!" She jabbed him in the chest with her finger, still fiercely glaring, and Bill held his hands up in surrender.

"I'm sorry, okay? I just—I know it's wrong, but I panicked, sort of. I heard her talking about pain, and it going on for years and I just thought... And then _you _started talking about contraceptives, and—"

"Any fool knows that contraceptive potions can 'elp a woman who suffers in that way," Fleur scoffed. "She cannot come to you or any of 'er other brothers to ask for 'elp because you either do nott know or you would laugh at 'er and 'urt 'er. You should not 'ave been listening at doors to private conversations, but if you must, then you must not jump to these conclusions. Any woman would 'ave known in_seconds_ what it ees we are on about!"

"I know, I know, you're completely right," Bill said, deciding very quickly that complete agreement was the best form of defense. "But when I made that mistake—when I thought she was talking about sex, and you know she's just got together with Harry—well...imagine if it was Gabrielle!"

Fleur's eyes narrowed. "It would not be Gabrielle at this age because she ees_twelve_! But if she was older, and she was asking for advice on _that_ matter, I would 'elp 'er, too! And before you say _anything_—you were the same age as Ginny when you first started sleeping with women."

"Yes, but it's diff—"

"Don't you _dare_ say it's different for girls because I was the same age too, and you knew that when you married me. What your sister does ees 'er business—well, Harry's too, if she ees doing it with him. You do not get to say _anything_. Now," Fleur said, drawing herself up, "you must apologise."

"I'm so very sorry," he began.

"Not to me, you fool! To Ginny!" Fleur exclaimed. "And if you _dare_ make 'er feel embarrassed or ashamed about 'er...womanly problems, you will be sleeping on the sofa from 'ere to eternity, you understand?!"

"Yes, Fleur, I understand," he said meekly, opening the kitchen door. "Ginny?"

His sister looked up at him, suddenly seeming much younger than sixteen.

"Ginny, I'm really sorry for barging in on your private discussion like that," he said. "I know it must be difficult, your...uh...I mean, your...ah..."

"Painful periods?" Ginny asked, smiling sweetly. He heard Fleur snort, and winced

"Yes, that. But I'm glad you have someone to advise you on these matters," he said, then realised he had turned into Percy. Ginny was smirking. "Look, I'm sorry for making those kind of assumptions. I'm just glad that you have Fleur to help out with those sorts of things. And I'm sorry you have to go through it. It can't be fun."

"It isn't," Ginny said. "Apology accepted, though." He smiled, relieved. "But, what did you think we were talking about?" she asked, blinking.

"Oh, come _on_, Gin," he said. She did the innocent angel face she could pull off so well (surprisingly), and Fleur poked him. "Ow! I just thought that the two of you were talking about...you know...well, _you know_!" He had no idea why it was suddenly so hard for him to say the word 'sex', but it was.

Ginny shrugged and blinked again, and he felt like he'd achieved something in not shaking her. Growing up the youngest, and the only girl, she'd become truly excellent at making her brothers feel uncomfortable...

"I just thought that you were talking to Fleur about contraceptives because you and Harry are...taking your relationship to the next level," he said, as first Ginny, then Fleur began to giggle. "However," he continued, trying to maintain the most dignified tone possible, "I am very glad you feel you are able to talk to Fleur about these sorts of issues, when such events do end up occurring. And I am sorry that I insinuated they are occurring now."

"I'm so glad you feel this way," Ginny said, mimicking his Percy-esque tone. "It is very good to know I have your full support. Because they _are_ occurring now!"

It took him a moment, but then he closed his eyes in horror—entirely missing the wink Ginny gave Fleur.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **still not mine. And not my prompt, either: "Ron is cornered by a spider, and is rescued by a character of your choice " (from an anon on tumblr). Don't read if arachnophobia troubles you :)

* * *

"Okay. Don't panic. But. We have a _situation_."

"...like the time we lost twelve crates of Headless Hats because _someone_ cocked up the invisibility charms?"

"Worse."

"Shit...are we talking having to write stock off? Why? How much?"

"We have to write off all the stock in this shop, burn it to the ground and use the insurance money to open on new premises. I know you were mooting Hogsmeade last month, but I'm thinking we're going to have to further than that. Like Antarctica, maybe."

"What the hell are you going on about?!"

"There is a spider back there."

"_Ron_. It is a bug. You're six two. Step on it."

"This is a _big_ spider though."

"Is it comparable in size to a Hippogriff?"

"Probably _two_ Hippogriffs."

"Christ almighty."

"Can you please just deal with it?"

"I am genuinely amazed that you are married."

"Me too. But _please_ just do something."

"Fine," George said. "Fine! I can see why you quit the Aurors—"

"Oh ha, ha."

"—but I am glad that the safety of our country is no longer reliant on someone who cannot deal with something that has more legs than he does."

"That's not true," Ron called, as his brother made his way into the back room. "I get on with Crookshanks quite well now."

Whatever George's response might have been, it was lost in a sudden clanging and crashing, the sort of noise made when far too many bottles of probably expensive products smashed on the ground. Seconds later he stumbled out of the stock room, slamming the door behind himself, wearing the expression of a man who has looked pure terror in the eye and barely lived to tell the tale.

"I'm pretty sure that spider is so large several of its limbs are in different postcodes. That is a _big_ spider."

"Told you."

"Bastard's got my wand."

"Bastard's got my tea! In my favourite mug, too."

"I think a wand is more important—wait, how did it get your tea?"

"I'd put it down on the shelf, right, whilst I went through the inventory for yesterday's delivery, and I'd just opened the first box when I saw…the thing." He shuddered.

"Looked right into every one of its sixteen eyes, did you?"

"Ah, shut it. How'd you even leave it with your wand?"

"I, ah, dropped it. When it practically jumped on me."

"Pillock."

George narrowed his eyes. "Right then. Of you go. Sort out the spider, Ronniekins. You've got the weapon. I mean, the wand."

"...you can borrow it?"

"And this is the calibre of men they send into the Aurors..."

"Er. The women are much better?"

"It'd be hard to be worse. Hey—that's an idea."

"What is?"

"We could call the Aurors out. It's not like we don't both have connections there."

"That's not a terrible idea."

"What's not a terrible idea? And _what_ was all that crashing I just heard, and _why_ are you both sitting out here on the floor when there's work to be doing? You've got three shop assistants running themselves ragged out there and you two are acting like you're on some kind of yoga retreat. Get out there and help!" Angelina seemed to tower over them, stood as she was with her hands on her hips and a glare on her face and on normal days, Ron would've gone out of his way not to cross her. But this was no normal day.

"In order: calling out the Aurors; sixteen boxes of stock falling to the floor; and because we have found the inner calm of men who have reconciled themselves to pure terror," George replied.

She turned to Ron.

"There is a spider."

Angelina rolled her eyes so hard he could practically hear them rattle.

"This is a _large_ spider," Ron protested. "I have seen small toddlers, to be honest."

She looked like she was considering this. "I will forgive _you_," she said slowly, "only because I am aware of your…previous history and therefore phobia of eight-legged creatures. _You_ on the other hand…!" She turned the full power of her glare towards George, who ordinarily would have trembled before it, but today stood firm.

"If you get rid of it, I will make sure that when we go on holiday next month, you get a lie-in every single morning and I will look after the kids next time they get ill. _And_ I'll buy you those red shoes you fancied in Gladrags the other day," he said.

Angelina raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding? All that for a spider?"

"I am deadly serious," George said, and Ron nodded, for moral support.

"Well, okay. Fine." She walked towards the door, then paused and turned back. "If I go in there, is something going to…to fall on my head?"

"Please," George said. "You're talking to the co-owners of Wheezes'. Don't you think we'd come up with something a little more sophisticated than that?!"

"No, but whatever." Angelina pulled the door to the stockroom open and both Ron and George leapt backwards. She sighed, and disappeared inside, the door swinging closed behind her.

A second later, they heard a scream which was hastily turned into a cough, a couple of light crashes, some muffled and rather creative swearing, and a pop.

"Um," said Ron, eying the door, "do you think we should go in and help?"

"She'd…she'd probably call out for us if she was in trouble," George said, but he did look faintly concerned.

"Yeah…" He felt guilty, sending Angelina in to deal with a spider for him when he was a thirty year old man…but it was a _big_ spider. And she was George's partner, not his. If it had been Hermione in there...

But George looked like he was stealing himself even more than Ron had to when Rose asked him to get rid of a tiny little moneyspider, "Are you okay?"

"That is a _big_ spider," George said, by way of response.

"I know? But I've never been good with spiders, especially ones of that size. But you..." he trailed off, quirking an eyebrow.

"I don't like spiders either!" he responded, clearly under duress. Ron raised an eyebrow. "When we cursed your Teddy Bear, obviously it upset you. But...truth be told...we were kind of...horrified by it ourselves."

"It was a _big_ spider," Ron agreed.

"A _big_ spider," George nodded. "Fred and I...well, we both were kind of terrified by it ourselves, to be totally honest. And now, now I'm alright with the little ones, but big ones like that monster...no thank you."

"Huh," said Ron. He wouldn't have minded—almost—had the twins and, latterly, George, not spent years making fun of him for his own phobia.

"I know. We were kind of arseholes."

"You _were_ arseholes."

"Yeah. But so were you sometimes."

"I guess."

"And I'm sorry. Fred was too, though he never said. Mostly because we ended up having nightmares about the whole ordeal too, but, y'know..."

Ron laughed. "Every cloud..."

"Yeah. And you know what? The real story here is that two grown men are cowering in the corner whilst the lady fair deals with—"

"I'm back."

"Angelina!"

"You got rid out it? _How_?" Ron asked with undisguised awe.

"Well," she said, blowing out a huge breath. "I didn't want to kill it because it was frigging massive and I would be scared of bringing all its spider friends in to wreak havoc on me as some kind of karmic revenge, _so_ I shrunk it down really small with my wand, conjured a glass to trap it in, apparated away to the fields where your parents live, set it free, reversed the shrinking spell and apparated back as quickly as I could."

"So pretty standard, really," George said.

"_Wow_," said Ron.

"You seriously owe me, though," Angelina replied. "I'm not even bothered by insects, but _that _was a big one."

"Technically, it's an arachnid."

"_Technically_, you can sort it out yourself next time," she said, glaring.

"I would've," George said, shrugging casually, "but I just wanted to see what you were made of, you know? Did you at least remember to pick up my wand for me, useless woman?"

"Your wand? I don't—_oh my God, spider_!" she screamed, throwing something towards him.

George jumped a straight foot in the air, swearing loudly as the thing brushed the front of his shirt, and Ron lurched sideways out of the firing line, fully prepared to scramble up the back staircase to get away if required—then started laughing at the smug look on Angelina's face, and the sheepish expression on George's.

"Next time, I'll apparate your wand halfway across the country and lock you in with the bugger," she said, marching off upstairs with a wave.

"She bloody would as well," George said, reluctantly impressed.

"I know," Ron said, already halfway through the door leading back into the shop. "Righto! I'll get back to the shopfloor, and you can poke around in there and do the delivery inventory. Don't forget to call Ange if there's any more spiders! I'm sure she'll be well up for helping you out!"


	3. Chapter 3

"The thing _is_," Ron says, placing his pint down firmly on the table and pointing in the direction of one of the Harrys sat opposite him. "The thing...is. The thing...heh...thing. No. The thing _is_, you know Ginny, right?"

Harry nods several times.

"Ginny, she's my sister. My schister. My—my _sister_," Ron continues. "Ginny...is my sister. And I'm her brother. And _you_, you're my friend. My pal. My good buddy. And! I _don't mind that you're dating her_. How good is that?!"

"I know why this is," Harry says smugly, with the air of a man who has solved one of the great philosophical questions of the age, then spoils the effect slightly by hiccupping. "Ish _because_ Hermione, right? Hermione...she's _my_ sister."

"She's _not_," Ron says indignantly. "Hair's too different."

Harry looks momentarily flummoxed, but quickly regroups. "I don't mean geneticsly," he says, waving a hand and knocking a coaster off the table. "Whoops! No. Hermione an' me, we're like...if I had a sister, it'd be her. And...if I didn't have a you, she'd be my you. Only, I don't think she'd be as good as being you as you are."

"Too much books," Ron nods sagely.

"Too much books," Harry agrees. "But! The point _is _that Hermione, right, Hermione is like my sister. So when I think of you an' her together, I don't like it, because that's my _sister_. But, you think that about me an' Ginny, because she's my sister. No! That's wrong, isn't it? She's _your_ sister."

"Who is?"

"Ginny!"

"Oh yeah..."

"D'you wanna nother beer?"

"Yeah."

"..."

"See, what I'm sayin', about Ginny, I mean," Ron says thoughtfully, once they're both re-seated (a feat which takes some effort), "is that at first, right, I was mad that you were dating her. Because she's my sister, you know? And you're _not_ my sister."

"_Definitely_ not," Harry nods, as though this had been in much doubt.

"But I have decided to let you be with her," he continues magnanimously. "Because I have had a-a-a realisation!"

"You have?" Harry asks, startled.

"Yes," Ron says firmly. "See, I know you're the Chosen One Who Lived or something, but I know Ginny. And I have known her for ninet—twenty—twenteen—_many_ years. More years'n I've known you. An' I was thinking about it—her, and what I thought was _this_." He nods once and puts his glass down on the table again. Harry, who had been leaning further and further in, to not miss Ron's realisation, jerks up suddenly and frowns at him in confusion.

"What did you realisation?" he asks.

"Oh! Yes. I realised," Ron says, pausing for dramatic effect. "That if you do anything to upset Ginny, I don't need to hurt you because there's _no way_ you'd survive if you pissed her off. She'd—you—_poof_!" He mimes an explosion with his hands, and nods, satisfied.

"Oh, _that_," Harry says, sounding vaguely disappointed, and Ron's face fell. "Tha's _old_ news," he insists. "An' I've always thought the same about you an' Merhione. _Hermione_. She's my sister, but I don't need to protect her from you, I need to protect _you _ from _her_. 'Member those birds?"

Ron shudders. "Could never drink enough to forget them," he says darkly, in a brief moment of sobriety. It soon passes. "Y'know," he says thoughtfully. "I quite like this."

"What, the Leaky?" Harry asks.

"Nah," he replies. "I mean..._this_. Us."

"Are you hittin' on me?" Harry asks. "Because 'm flattered, but I'm scared of what Gin'd do if I messed her around."

"No," Ron says. "I mean, us bein'...whatever we are. Because you're my mate, my pal, but...it's a bit sissy to say that, innit? So, if Ginny's my sister, and you're Ginny's girlfriend, and Hermione's _your _sister, and Hermione's my woman, you're my...my...my...sister-in-law!" he finishes triumphantly, looking delighted.

"That's _so cool_," Harry says, eyes widening. "I've always wanted a sister." He clambers to his feet, swaying slightly, but his expression quickly changes to one of utter delight.

"Y'know what _I've_ just realised?" he asks.

"What?" Ron asks warily.

"If I'm your sister-in-law that means that also...I," he pauses triumphantly, "amma Weasley!" He strides forward, and immediately topples headlong over a bar stool.

* * *

"Don't get me wrong, I'm really grateful that you _have _come to pick them up," Hannah says, as Ginny and Hermione brush themselves off as they step out from the fireplace, "but if it were me, I'd leave Nev where he was, he could find his own way home! I love the bloke, but I'm not going to run round after him when he gets drunk, you know?"

"Oh, I hope they weren't any trouble?" Hermione asks anxiously. "We can leave some extra money to cover—"

"It's nothing like that—and honestly, they've mostly been fine. No disruption or destruction. It was pretty quiet tonight, and they've both spent a _lot_ with how much they've been drinking," Hannah replies. "I was just thinking—it looks like the two of you were having a pretty nice evening together. Why let them ruin it for you? If it were me, I wouldn't let them get away with it!"

She's joking, but only half: she had felt quite guilty in disturbing them, not least when it was neither of their faults that Harry and Ron had drunk themselves into a stupor. When she had put her head through the floo to call on the two of them, they had been curled up in the lounge at Grimmauld Place with a bottle of wine and an assortment of cosmetics between them, and Ginny had been carefully painting Hermione's toenails (she had put on a pair of flip flops to come to the pub, which looked particularly charming with her snitch-patterned pyjama bottoms and an enormous maroon jumper with a giant 'R' on its front).

The two women exchange wry smiles. "The things you do for love," Ginny shrugs. "Or something equally ridiculous."

"Well, if you want payback, I'd whip out a camera about now," Hannah says, beckoning them forward. The three of them peer around the bar and stifle giggles. The pub is empty but for the two of them, but they're both snoring so loudly it sounds as though there are several conversations going on at once. Although Harry is sat in a booth, his stomach and face are pressed against the table, with one arm drooping off either side in such a way that he bears a remarkable resemblance to a chimpanzee, whilst Ron is propped upright on the booth's other side, wearing a very dopey grin and, inexplicably, Harry's glasses.

"Oh no," Hermione grins, "we've better payback than that. We have to go for Sunday lunch at The Burrow tomorrow. The whole family'll be there, including all the kids, and we're expected bright and early to help with the preparations."

"And," Ginny adds brightly, "we've hidden all the Hangover Potion!"


	4. Chapter 4

**This is mildly nsfw, but there's nothing graphic here if that's not your cup of tea :)**

"Bloody kids," Ron sighed, dumping three Skiving Snackboxes on the counter.

"What've they done now?" George asked, emerging from the storeroom.

"Just caught two of the little buggers trying to shoplift," his brother replied, pointing to the items. "I got our stock back, and gave 'em a good talking to so I don't think they'll do it again, but it's still a pain in the arse."

"I know," nodded George with feeling. "I swear we're getting more and more of it these days."

"Well, the summer holidays have just started," Ron pointed out.

"Yes, but even without that, I still think there's more of it going on than there used to be," said George. "After all, when _I_ was a child, I was—"

"A total angel, yeah, we all know," Ron said, then sighed. "Sadly, I don't think there's anything we can do—though at least running after the little darlings keeps me fit."

"_Au contraire_, dear brother, I have just the solution!"

"You're not allowed to wallop them, tempting as it is," said Ron.

"No, no," George said, taking a seat on the chair and putting his feet up on the counter. "We're getting more and more kids in here these days, and even when they're _not_ nicking stuff, they're messing things around and putting things on the wrong shelf, it's a nightmare to keep on top of. So, what we need to do is entice their parents in, too, so _they _can keep an eye on them—or more of an eye than they are at the moment, at any rate."

"And how'd you propose doing that?"

"It's simple," George said smugly. "Adult products."

Ron's eyebrows rose. "We'll get shut down under the terms of the Obscenities Act of 1381," he said knowledgably.

"It'll be great—wait, the what now?" George asked.

"The Obscenities Act of 1381," Ron repeated. "Percy," he expanded. "When James put one of those new whoopee cushions under his seat, he said he'd have him charged with the Obscenities Act of 1381 and parcelled off to Azkaban if he did it again. So, of course, he did. I don't know if the Act _really_ exists, he could've been joking but—"

"That does sound like our Perce," George agreed.

"Exactly," said Ron. "But whether or not that Act is real, we can't really go around putting sex toys in the shop, unless you do it under the counter, which is a bit...grubby. Besides, people go to specialist shops for that sort of thing."

"I'm sure you'd know," George said, "but I'm not thinking anything like _that_. Just a few fairly tame things, but designed to appeal to a slightly older audience than, say, the Snackboxes. We put 'em on a slightly higher shelf than the other stuff, maybe, make sure they're not stocked next to the baby and toddler Wheezes, but I think it could work."

"What sort of products do you have in mind?" asked Ron.

"Nothing too...graphic, like I say. Family friendly stuff, but a bit risqué," he replied. "What I've come up with so far is: pants."

"Pants?"

"Pants. Knickers. Unmentionables. Funny ones, you know? Ones that say things at inopportune moments—we could do a sexy version, but also just a silly version, you know, the sort of gag gift you'd buy your mate. Pants that change colour, maybe, when things get...ahem, hotter. Pants where parts of them vanish under certain circumstances...it's all very up in the air at the moment, so any ideas you have, chuck 'em my way," George replied.

"It doesn't sound too bad," Ron nodded. "If it was successful, we could maybe expand into bras, do matching bra and knicker sets. Maybe, on the novelty side of things, go for something like knickers with the Hogwarts house emblems on, where the lion roars and the snake hisses and the badger...well, whatever it is badgers do. I'm sure it's terrifying. And, if you wanted something more adulty, we could do vibrating knickers!"

"Who'd buy vibrating knickers?!"

"Hermione would, if—"

"Woah, okay, enough," George said, holding up his hands. "That's probably a bit much, even for me. We might need to work out a few things, but you're on board with the general idea?" Ron nodded. "Great. I'll start working on a few designs, see what we can come up with practically, and then I was thinking we might do a trial run over Christmas, and if it's successful, do a load for Valentine's Day next year?"

"Sounds pretty good," Ron nodded. "Do you have a name for them yet?"

George pulled a face. "The only thing I've got so far is 'Magic Knickers'. Not awful, but not great either. But I'm thinking we can work on that nearer the time."

"Yeah, you're right," Ron nodded. Behind the counter, the clock chimed half past five, and, looking round at the now empty shop, he suggested they close.

"Good idea," George said, as he went to change the sign on the door to 'CLOSED'. "By the way, how did you get the snackboxes back from those kids?"

Ron, cashing up the till, grinned. "I told them I was a close personal friend of Harry Potter."

George laughed. "I know he killed Voldemort and everything, but I don't get why everyone thinks _he's_ the scary one when he's married to Ginny!"

* * *

_Three weeks later..._

Ron unzipped her dress in one fluid motion, and she stepped out of it. They surveyed each other for one long moment, then crashed into each other at the same time, limbs tangling, teeth pulling and biting on lips. He picked her up and carried her over to the bed, placing her on it and she wriggled underneath him, kissing his lips, his chin, his neck—anywhere she could reach.

A thought, more sobering than an ice cold shower, stopped her.

"What is it?" he asked at once, instantly sensing her reluctance.

"Silencing charm," she said.

He groaned. "My wand's on the dresser."

"Mine's downstairs—but do it. Unless you _want_ Rosie and Hugo bursting in here?!"

"Definitely not," he agreed, and sat up.

Hermione laughed. Definitely not, indeed. She loved her children, but...well, she had needs. And last time they'd forgotten the silencing charm, they'd had Rose bursting in because she'd been upset by the 'scary sounds' she'd heard. That was _not_ going to happen tonight.

Her day hadn't started well—she'd been working on a particularly complicated case for weeks, and it was due to be finally heard by the Wizengamot that morning. For one reason or another, the start time had got more and more delayed, and it was after two in the afternoon when they began, but when they _did_ begin, her day had perked up considerably: she had won inside three hours, a new personal record. Hearing this, Ron had organised a babysitter for the evening and taken her out to dinner at her favourite restaurant, where she'd had _far_ too much to drink for a work night—at least, that was what she was saying was her excuse for jumping on him the moment they'd set foot across the threshold.

"Now, where were we?" Ron asked now, returning to the bed.

"Here, I think," she said, undoing the top button of his shirt and kissing him there. "Or maybe here," she continued, undoing the next button and planting a kiss there, too. "Or here..." She continued until she reached the final button, which lay over the line of his jeans, and he groaned as she kissed him there.

She all but cackled as she sat up again, reaching up to take his shirt off and not holding back her stares. "You still look good," she said, smiling.

He winked at her. "You're not too bad yourself," he said, tracing a finger down her stomach and making her shiver. "Although," he said, hooking one finger inside the elastic of her underwear, but not moving any further, "d'you know what you'd look better in?"

She shook her head and he leaned in close. "_Magic knickers_," he whispered sultrily in her ear.

It was as if he'd suddenly informed her he was leaving her for Draco Malfoy; she could not have been more offended. She stiffened instantly, pulling away from him and fighting the urge to cover her midsection with a pillow.

"What?" he asked, suddenly turning pale and sitting upright, all thoughts of intimacy forgotten. "Hermione? What's wrong?"

"_What's wrong_?!" she repeated, incredulous. "How dare you! I know my figure's not like it once was after having had two children, but I didn't see _you_ on the delivery table, pushing nine pound infants out of your nethers! I think I'm allowed a bit of slack after _that_."

"What's that got to do with...Hermione, don't...we were having a lovely evening, and now—"

"Oh yes, a lovely evening!" she said, gesticulating wildly. "A _lovely_ evening. Oh, here, love eat this, eat that, eat the other! Have the chocolate pudding for dessert, you deserve it! And you may as well finish this bottle of wine, too—but for God's sake, whatever you do, _don't get fat_."

"Fat?" Ron spluttered. "You're not—I didn't—"

"Well I'm sorry I'm not as skinny as I once was, but just because I don't look like I did when I was sixteen doesn't mean I'm not—"

"Hermione!" he cried, so loudly that even in her anger she took a moment to feel grateful for the silencing charm. "_I don't think you're fat_!"

"Maybe not, but you've no problem telling me I'm a bit flabby around the stomach, which _I_ think is pot calling the kettle—"

"And I never said anything about your stomach, either! You've got a lovely tummy. I love it."

"Then _why_," she said sharply, raising an eyebrow, "do you think I need _magic knickers_?"

"It's not just me," Ron said quickly. "George thinks—"

"You've been discussing my fat stomach with George?" she shrieked.

"No, nonononono," he said, clearly having realised that this was the wrong answer. "It's just—magic knickers could be sexy!"

Hermione's expression changed from one of outrage to one of deep concern.

"_Excuse_ me?" she asked.

"You know," he said, seeming encouraged by the fact that she appeared less likely to kill him and more likely to take his temperature and enquire after his general health, "they've got lace and...fancy things, I dunno what they're called on them. And they can change colour and—"

"Lace?" she demanded. "What magic knickers have _you_ seen that have lace on them?"

"Well the ones that—wait, what magic knickers have _you_ seen? They're only prototypes at the moment, and George says—"

"George?!"

"Yes, George, about yea high, can be a bit of a git sometimes but is generally alright—"

"I know who George is," Hermione snapped. "Are you...are you telling me that magic knickers are a new Wheezes product?"

"What else would they be?" Ron asked, genuinely bemused.

Hermione slumped back against the pillows and bit her lip. "Then I think," she said carefully, "that you may need to give serious consideration to changing the name."

"Why?"

"Well," she said, breathing deeply, "in the muggle world, you can buy control underwear, which is made of super strong elastic and more steel than the entirety of the rail network, and it does things like suck in your tummy or squeeze down your thighs—like a modern day corset, really. Muggle women wear them to look slimmer and more toned."

"Why?"

"Usually for some reason that falls between 'I want to look good in this skin-tight dress but also eat pasta' and 'patriarchal beauty standards'," she explained.

"Naturally."

"But they're the most hideous things," Hermione continued. "Like a cross between something your Auntie Muriel would wear and what a sausage would look like if you too all the meat out of it."

"Ah," Ron said. "And so when I said that you would look better in magic knickers, you thought I meant something as hideous as that."

"That would also make me look slimmer," Hermione nodded.

"Well, I didn't mean that _at all_," Ron said, sounding horrified. "You might look a bit...different now, but you're still just as beautiful to me as the day we met. Well, maybe not the day we met—I wasn't as good as appreciating that when I was eleven but...well, you get what I mean."

"I do," Hermione said, laughing. "I'm sorry I shouted at you. I was just a bit offended."

"As you would be!" Ron said seriously. "And you're right, I think we do need to change the name. George wants to do pants that like...change colour, or bits of them vanish and so on. More novelty gifts than sexy, but we're definitely going to need a better name if we want to market to anyone who knows anything about the muggle world."

"You really, really do," Hermione said. "If only to avoid the near-divorce situation that occurred here when I didn't know what you meant." Her tone was light and jokey, but Ron looked serious.

"You know I would love you no matter what you looked like, right?" he asked, and he looked so concerned that she leaned over and kissed him.

"Of course," she said, and then he kissed her, and she could feel him smiling. "Wait," she said, pulling back after a moment. She blinked up at him flirtatiously and asked, "would you still love me if I looked like a troll?"

"Absolutely!" Ron said. "As long as you were a troll in lacy underpants, of course," he added seriously.


	5. Chapter 5

"…so anyway, we think we've got the move down but we won't know for sure until after the Puddlemere match on Saturday," Ginny finished, stirring her hot chocolate. She glanced over at Hermione, who was still fidgeting around looking distracted and wondered when her friend would speak up about whatever it was that was bothering her. She knew something was up: Hermione never allowed her to talk about Quidditch for more than five minutes without trying to change the subject, and Ginny had been explaining the technicalities of what would (hopefully) become the Harpies' Chasers new signature move for fifteen now.

She flicked a splash of hot chocolate at Hermione, who jumped. "Earth to Hermione?"

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head like someone who'd just emerged from water. "You were saying?"

"It doesn't matter," Ginny said. "So, what's new with you?"

Hermione squirmed in her seat. "Do you ever think," she began, casting around furtively, as though she was about to reveal state secrets rather than answer an innocuous question about her life, "that you might be a bit…_boring_?"

Ginny burst out laughing. "If you were that bored by my Quidditch diatribe, you should've said!" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't have been offended, all you need to say is, 'Ginny, love, you're boring as anything, now shut your cakehole, unless you're opening it to fill it with _actual _cake, because—"

"No, no," Hermione said, interrupting her quickly. "Do you ever think that _I _am boring? What I do, how I live my life?"

Ginny rolled her eyes so hard she was quite surprised there wasn't an accompanying sound effect. "You are _Hermione Granger_. People are clamouring to write your autobiography and you're only just twenty! How could you be boring?"

"Well, I have done some…unusual things," Hermione said delicately. "But I was talking more about my personal life: do you, as my friend, think I am boring?"

Her jaw was set in such a manner that Ginny knew she had to take this ridiculous question seriously, and so she settled back in her chair, considering her answer before she gave it. "I suppose for me, personally, your job is a bit boring. Terribly important, yes—and I've no doubt you'll make waves in pro-werewolf legislation and anti-discrimination against House Elves rulings or whatever it is—but for me, being shut up in an office in the Ministry day in and out would be torture. _But_," she continued, "that is why I fly for the Holyhead Harpies for a living and you do that job. No offense, but you'd be rubbish at my job—almost as rubbish as I would be at yours. The world needs people to do boring jobs."

"Huh," said Hermione. She picked up the cake she had bought but put it down without taking a bite. "So, I am boring, but that's okay?" She sounded so worried that Ginny was beginning to feel genuinely concerned.

"I was only kidding when I said you were boring," she said. "What's this about, anyway? Who's been saying your boring?"

"No one's been saying I'm boring," Hermione said. She glanced around the café they were in surreptitiously, then leaned in across the table. "Listen," she whispered, "I know that Harry is like my brother so I never ask you about your relationship because it just gets weird, but I have to know: how do you stop…_things_ from becoming boring?"

"'Things?'" Ginny said, stifling a grin. "Do you mean our sex life?"

"Ssh!" Hermione said, glancing around the café in case they were overheard. This was highly unlikely: the two of them were having afternoon tea and a catch up in a Muggle café in Wales, near the Harpies' training ground, where they were unknown to any of the other patrons and would not be followed by any rogue reporters. "Don't say it so loud!"

"You don't have to be so coy about it," Ginny said. "Yes, Ron's my brother so I know we don't talk about it much, but I know you're having sex, okay? And you know that _I'm _having sex, and we're all fine with that knowledge."

"Ssh!" Hermione said again, looking even more agitated. "There's an old woman over there knitting! What if she hears you?"

"I've no doubt the knitting will be very upset," Ginny said. "Look, d'you want to go elsewhere to have this conversation? We could go to Grimmauld Place—the boys are both out today, and—"

"_No_!" Hermione said, with such ferocity and volume that the old woman knitting looked over in alarm. "I mean, no. We can't go there!"

Ginny decided she had better get to the bottom of whatever was going on with her friend, and quickly. Hermione appeared to be losing her marbles, and if Ron got wind of this, he'd be in a state of immense agitation wondering what he had done wrong, would worry about it so much to Harry that he'd end up fretting, and Ginny would be the one having to sort out the whole mess. Accepting no arguments from Hermione, she paid for their food then dragged Hermione down the road to the beach, where they sat and shared the piece of cake Hermione had been messing around with. "Now, tell me what's wrong," she said, pulling her coat tighter around her. Even though it was April, the Welsh beach was still cold. She hoped Hermione was appreciating this…

"Ron and I…we're going through a…well a…a dry spell," Hermione said. It took her so long to get the words out that Ginny worked to keep her face neutral—much as she was loathe to hear about any of her siblings' sex lives, she really did want to help Hermione out, and Merlin only knew, she was not exactly forthcoming when talking about the more physical side of her relationship.

"Oh?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, we're always both so tired after work, you know," Hermione said. "And then we get back, but we have to cook dinner, and wash up, then there's always work to be doing or letters to family to write before bed. Which is not really an aphrodisiac, you know? And most of our conversations in the evening or early morning are along the lines of "you can have the shower first because I need to finish this" or "have you put the cat out yet?" and frankly, it's not at all conducive to a healthy romantic life," she finished, sounding rather like she was delivering a report at work. "And also," she added, as an afterthought. "Usually Harry's there too. So I can't start anything because we're all down in the living room, and I can't possibly even ask Ron when he's coming to bed in front of Harry because that's just too, too weird!"

"Well, I do try to take him off you a few nights a week…" Ginny said.

"I didn't mean it was Harry's fault, as such," Hermione said. "I _love_ that he still lets us live there whilst we save up for our own place—though I do wish he'd let us pay rent. It's just off-putting, you know? To try to arrange…_things_ for when he's not here."

"Okay, I'm going to stop you right there," Ginny said. "I know _all_ about the lack of spontaneity that comes when you're basically having sex on a schedule, like Harry and I do now we're both working. No, come on, Hermione!" she added, seeing Hermione flinch at that. "If I've got to pretend it's not my brother you're sleeping with, you've got to pretend it's not Harry I am." Hermione pulled a face, but acquiesced. "So, if the spontaneity is out because you know you're only seeing each other on Tuesdays and Fridays or whatever, you've got to keep the spark in other ways!"

"But this is just my problem," Hermione argued. "I know that, but I don't know what to do to be less boring."

"You want to be not-boring in the bedroom?" Ginny asked, arching an eyebrow. "You want me to give you tips on how to spice up your love life _with my brother_?"

"I know, I know!" Hermione said, burying her face in her hands. "I know it's weird. But you're the only person I can talk to about this—you're the only person who I know won't laugh at me!"

Ginny took a deep breath. "Okay," she said. "I'll give you some tips as long as: you promise not to be weird about the fact that I've at least tried most of them with Harry, and you pay me back by shutting Ron down from now until the end of time every time he tries to be weird about his "baby sister" dating, okay?"

"It's a deal," Hermione promised.

"Okay," said Ginny, and then, for good measure "Okay!" again because she needed some time to fully prepare her response. "Right. The first thing to bear in mind is that if you're trying to spice up your sex life, things that turn on other people aren't necessarily going to turn you on. Just do what you like, try stuff and if it doesn't work for you, don't do it again. And make sure you're talking to Ron to make sure he's into it—or not—too."

Hermione nodded, looking so serious Ginny half-expected her to pull out a sheaf of parchment and start taking notes. "The second thing is, buy _Witch Weekly_. There's a relationships advice column in there that's actually not that bad when it comes to new ideas."

"_Your mother_ reads _Witch Weekly_!" Hermione said.

"I like to believe she turns straight from 'current affairs' to the cooking pages," Ginny said with dignity.

"So basically, you think I should just read the sex tips column in magazines?" Hermione asked doubtfully. "I'm not sure I'm ready for what _Cosmo_ suggests yet…"

Ginny felt faintly confused, but soldiered on regardless. "Look, just do what you want to do. Maybe try dressing up? Ask Ron if he has anything in mind: you don't even need to actually do it, just getting him to think about you in various outfits might be enough to liven things up. It doesn't have to be fancy dress—unless you want to—maybe buy yourself some sexy nightclothes or underwear or something."

"Hmm," said Hermione.

"Or, one time, I tied a scarf around Harry's eyes to blindfold him, and then he did the same thing to me later. That was fun, you know, not being able to see so you're not quite sure what's coming next…" she added, flushing slightly at the memory.

"You didn't need to blindfold him for that, you could've just taken off his glasses," Hermione said. "I know how bad his eyesight is—I've been inside him, so to speak."

"Oo-er," Ginny said, nudging her, and they both collapsed into giggles. "Look," she said. "Ron loves you and he doesn't think you're boring _at all_. But if you're worried the physical side of your relationship's lost its spark, just try something new out occasionally. It doesn't have to work, and you don't have to do it again. I mean, one time—um…" She broke off, biting her lip, and Hermione turned to her, intrigued.

"What?" she asked, "Come on, you can't leave a story like that just hanging there…"

"Well," Ginny said. "One time, I read in the _Witch Weekly_ column that some men like it when you bring food into the bedroom. And it said why not incorporate his favourite treats somehow? Only I didn't have any chocolate sauce, which is what it was suggesting, so I tried with Harry's favourite food…" Hermione looked like she was trying not to laugh. "All that happened was we got treacle tart all over the bedclothes and no amount of _Scourgify_ got it out completely—stop laughing! Stop!"

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, managing a straight face briefly. "I'll bear your mistakes in mind."

"But that's just what I mean," Ginny said. "We tried something, it was ridiculous, we moved on. That's all you and Ron need to do. And there's nothing wrong with finding you don't like _anything_ exciting."

"I know," said Hermione. "But you have given me some ideas—I might go shopping for some new underwear soon. I've been needing some new bras for a while, and—"

"No no," Ginny said firmly, shaking her head. "You've got to get something _fancy_, that you're only going to wear in the bedroom, not something you'll throw on every day. And you should take Ron shopping with you. Trust me, men have ideas about what they want you to wear. He might surprise you—ask him for his_ultimate fantasy_," she made her voice a parody of a seductive purr, and wiggled her eyebrows excessively, then stopped, looking revolted. "Okay, I really have had enough of talking about my brother's ultimate fantasies now," she said.

"I quite understand," Hermione said, patting her arm. "But seriously, thank you. I know it's weird for us to talk about this, but it has helped me."

"I'm glad," Ginny said. "And you're a bright girl—you can take it from here, I'm sure. You're always full of ideas! Just do me a favour and don't share any of them with me."

Hermione laughed. "That would just be too much."

"It would," Ginny agreed fervently, and steered the conversation back towards the much safer topic of Quidditch, figuring Hermione most definitely owed her after all that.

* * *

Several weeks later, Ginny was enjoying a rare rest weekend, wherein she had no matches and was free to do whatever she liked. On Friday night, Harry had taken her out to dinner, then they had spent the evening at her flat in Wales. After a leisurely breakfast, they had spent the morning strolling around Diagon Alley and were now back at Grimmauld Place. Harry had just announced his intention to pop into work to see if Ron was done with the paperwork he was supposed to be finishing off, and ask him if he and Hermione would like to join them on a double-date that evening.

"I think Hermione's up in their room working—you go and ask her," he said, pecking her on the cheek. "I'll just floo into the Ministry, I won't be long."

"See you in a bit!" Ginny replied, waving him off. She turned back into the living room once he'd gone, and her attention was immediately caught by the Gryffindor tie lying strew across the sofa. She smiled to herself as she folded it neatly. Harry had mentioned at dinner that he and Ron had been reliving some of their good memories of school the other night, and she was pleased that, despite everything, he was still able to love Hogwarts. Clearly, the fit of nostalgia had even extended to digging out their old school ties…

She was preoccupied, wondering about where _her_ old school things were (still at her parents'? Or maybe they'd given them away…), and so she didn't really register the school cloak, lying at the foot of the stairs. If she had, she might not have burst into Hermione and Ron's room with such vigour—or at least not without knocking.

In a split second, she recognised all of Hermione's old school uniform lying across the floor and looking like it had been thrown there in great haste, before everyone started yelling at once. Mercifully, Ron and Hermione were (at present) just lying under the covers cuddling, so she didn't see anything _too awful_, but she now knew that Hermione had indeed taken her advice to heart—and what her brother's ultimate fantasy clearly was.

And there were some things a sister should never, ever find out.

Her hands flew to her face, covering her eyes but it was no good: the image was probably indelibly burned onto her brain.

"Don't you knock?!" Ron howled.

"You're _supposed_ to be at _work_!" Ginny yelled back, realising as she did so (as if this moment could get any worse) that she sounded exactly like her mother.

"You could knock!" Ron repeated, as she fumbled for the doorknob, still keeping her eyes closed.

"Oh, shut up!"

Ginny stumbled out into the hallway, unsure whether to laugh or vomit. Although they lived in the same house, she had never walked in on the two of them together before, and neither had either of them walked in on her and Harry.

_Well, it was bound to happen some time_, the rational part of her brain said.

_Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, said the not rational part of her brain.

She shut herself into Harry's bedroom, flopping down on the bed. It was one thing talking to Hermione about…_that_ when she was given time to mentally separate Ron-her-brother and Ron-her-best-friend's-boyfriend. But Ron wasn't even supposed to be at home today! And it was one thing to be aware that he was sleeping with Hermione; it was quite another to see evidence of that thrown across the floor at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon.

At least he wouldn't be able to pull the 'you're my baby sister' thing on her any time soon. This would be the ultimate blackmail…

There was a timid knock at the door.

She took a deep breath. "Come in."

Hermione appeared, wearing a dressing gown and a worried expression, and perched on the window seat. "I'm sorry," she said at once. "We're both sorry. Me and Ron. He's, um, getting dressed."

"Good," said Ginny. "And I'm sorry for not knocking, but in my defence, I was told you were up there doing some work, not going at it like rabbits with my brother!"

"We weren't at it like rabbits!" Hermione protested, flushing pink. "We were just…lying there." Ginny gave her a look. "Besides," Hermione added, sounding defensive, "this is all _your_ fault, you know."

"_My _fault?!"

"Yes!" Hermione said. "You were the one suggesting I try some dressing up in the bedroom, so I asked Ron what he wanted and he said he always had fantasies about me in my uniform whilst we were at school."

"Of course he did, he was a fifteen year old boy. They're all pervy gits," Ginny grumbled.

"Well, it sounded more romantic when he said it," she explained.

"Oh, God," said Ginny.

"Anyway," Hermione said. "I was bored this afternoon and though it was rubbish that Ron had to work on a Saturday, so I went into work to fetch him."

"You went to the Ministry dressed up like that?!" Ginny gaped.

"I wore my cloak tied up, so you couldn't see anything, then only took it off when we were in the office. Besides, I was only wearing what I wore every day for seven years, it's not scandalously revealing or anything," Hermione explained, as though this were obvious and Ginny should have known. "Ron…sped up his report writing, and then we came home. The end."

"I'm torn between 'good for you!' and 'this is more information than I ever, ever needed'," Ginny groaned. "But I suppose I'm glad my advice was put to good use… I just hope there was no one else in the office!"

"Of course there wasn't!" Hermione said. "What sort of a girl do you think I am?!"

"Quite a different one than what I thought you were a few minutes ago…"

"Are you cross with me?" Hermione asked.

"No, silly," Ginny said. "I'm just…permanently mentally disturbed, probably."

"Oh dear," said Hermione.

"Yes," said Ginny. They both looked at each other for a moment, before bursting out into giggles. "Right," said Ginny, once they had subsided. "Here is what's going to happen: I'm going to go downstairs and try to work out a way to self-Obliviate, but regardless of whether or not that's actually possible, we are _never going to talk about this again_. Pass that on to Ron, and we'll be sorted, okay?"

"That sounds like a good plan," Hermione said, nodding enthusiastically. "I'll tell him."

"Good," said Ginny. Hermione waved and left the room, and Ginny shook her head vigorously, like she had just emerged from a pool of water. She made her way downstairs to the living room, silently praising herself for not diving straight towards the Firewhiskey bottle in the drinks cupboard.

She could hear Ron and Hermione pottering around upstairs but they (mercifully) appeared to be in no hurry to come downstairs, so she was still sat alone on the sofa when Harry returned, looking confused and a little bit worried. "Ron's not at work," he said before he'd even stepped out at the fireplace. "But I did find this on his desk—isn't it Hermione's old schoolbag?"

"Sit down," Ginny said, pointing at the armchair in front of her. "Ron's fine, by the way," she added, when he seemed concerned about her lack of concern.

"How do you know?" Harry asked. "Have you seen him? Is he here?"

"You could say that," Ginny said. "But I've decided that if we're all going to be living here together, we're going to need a new set of rules."

"Rules about what? Doing the washing up? Because in fairness, Ron's pretty good about that, and I—"

"Oh _Harry_," Ginny sighed, half-amused and half-appalled. "Rules about what to do to announce you're in need of some couple time. _Alone_." A noise behind her made her turn, and she saw a very sheepish looking Ron standing in the doorway.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, his confusion deepening as he looked between the two siblings. "Ginny? Ron?" He added, when no explanation was forthcoming. He looked back at Ginny, and his attention was caught by the item on the sofa next to her. "Hang on—is that a Gryffindor tie down there?!"

"Er, well…" Ron began, stuttering.

"When I say we need to talk about some house rules," Ginny said, taking pity on him, "I really mean that we need to talk about some house rules…"


	6. Chapter 6

"I mean, at first it was so sudden that I didn't know if I should say anything to her," Ron said. Harry grunted in sympathy. "And now…well, it's been so long I wouldn't know where to start. I feel like I've been going behind her back for _months_."

"And Hermione's not going to like that," Harry agreed, sounding uncharacteristically grave. "But you have to tell her sooner or later, and the sooner the better—for everyone's sake."

"Oh, I know that," replied Ron. "I just have no idea how to begin the conversation."

There was a noise like a chair scraping backwards on the wooden floor, and Hermione jumped guiltily. Honestly, she wasn't the type to listen at doors, but Ron had been acting so strangely recently, and she'd just been passing by when she'd heard him talking to Harry and she'd hesitated for just a moment, and…well, they always said you shouldn't eavesdrop if you weren't prepared to hear some things you wouldn't like.

"Well, you could start with the most obvious thing: telling the truth," Harry said.

"I can't do _that_!" Ron said, sounding horrified. "She'd never forgive me!"

Hermione's heart began to pound. She had thought Ron was acting strangely recently—sometimes, she'd walk into a room and he'd start suddenly, attempting to pull an "I'm totally innocent, nothing funny going on here, no siree" face that only made it all the more obvious that he _was_ up to something. He'd be all shifty and cagey over seemingly nothing, and it was the kind of behaviour that, if she'd been insecure and 14, would have made her think he was cheating on her. When this thought had first occurred to her, she'd dismissed this out of hand—Ron would _never_—but now…now she wondered again.

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad," Harry said, laughing. "It's not like you're cheating on her, or something!"

Hermione, who had opened her mouth ready to barge into the room demanding an explanation, closed it with a snap, hurt. _If_ Ron was going behind her back with some other woman, she'd have thought Harry would have taken her side. She, after all, was the one in the right here.

"Am I not, though? It certainly feels that way," Ron said, and she could practically hear his nervous fidgeting, even through a closed door. She'd always found his tics endearing, as well as been proud that she could read them so well. Now all she felt was a cold sensation in her stomach.

She held her breath, still listening outside the closed door. They clearly hadn't realised she'd returned home from work early. She'd been hoping to surprise Ron, and the irony of how the tables had turned hadn't escaped her.

"Come on," Harry said. "You're _not_ cheating on her. You're just—" he sounded like he was trying to stifle laughter, "you're just having an affair of the heart! With—"

"No!" Ron yelped, cutting him off before Hermione could hear a name. Harry was outright laughing now (she made a mental note not to try to defend him to Ginny next time they had an argument), but Ron sounded even more upset.

"Okay," Harry said, having appeared to make a concerted effort to control himself. "When did this start?"

"Three or four months ago," Ron answered promptly. Hermione flinched. He'd been doing…_something_with…_someone_ for three or four months?!

"But you've known each other for years!" Harry said, sounding surprised. "How come it's suddenly changed?"

"I don't know," Ron said helplessly. "I didn't initiate it. But suddenly…things just seemed to change between us. It's like we saw each other in a way that we hadn't managed to before, if that makes sense?"

Hermione's heart began to beat so loudly she half-expected the two of them to hear it through the heavy wooden door. Lavender Brown had recently started working at the Auror Office—about four months ago, if she remembered correctly. But Ron didn't like her any more—he hadn't for years, and even when they'd been in school it had been a lust thing, not a love thing. Besides, she and Lavender got on well these days! She wouldn't…and he certainly wouldn't…would they?

"It does," Harry said. "But, you know, I don't think Hermione'll mind. She might quite like it, actually." Right. Not only was she never going to buy him a birthday or Christmas present again, she was also going to find a way to rescind all those she'd given him over the years.

"Don't be thick, of course she won't like it!" Ron said scornfully, and Hermione almost felt pleased that she was defending him to Harry, who was clearly missing a few brain cells, before remembering that he was cheating on her. "I mean, he was hers first!"

Wait a minute…_he_? Had she heard that correctly?!

"Yes, he was, but there's no reason you can't share him now," Harry said.

He. He! Who on Earth could they be talking about?! Not Viktor, surely—he would have mentioned it in one of his letters. Or would he? 'Bulgaria is fine, hope you're well, lots of love and ps I'm sleeping with your boyfriend.' No, perhaps not. But it _couldn't_ be Cormac sodding McLaggan of all people!

"The thing is, I'm not sure he even wants to be shared," Ron said. "He's become very attached to me and lately I've noticed him being a bit…well, off with her. He just seems to want me. And you know…I've become pretty fond of him myself. I kind of don't want to share, either!"

Hermione—a kind, considerate person—had never before been able to imagine a situation when she would feel anti-gay rights, but now she had found one: there was nothing wrong with being attracted to the same gender…unless you were currently dating Hermione Granger, who was very much in love with you.

She racked her brains, trying to think of which of their friends Ron was in love with. It couldn't be Harry—her first thought—or he wouldn't be in the living room having that conversation with Ron right now. And it wouldn't be Viktor, either. It would have to be someone they both knew quite well. Perhaps…could it be Neville? Neville always seemed a bit funny around her, which she'd always chalked up to him being shy but…oh, Merlin, what if he'd been in love with Ron for years and secretly hated her?! She tried to imagine going out with all their friends and seeing Ron and Neville holding hands and acting all loved up, and found that she just couldn't. It would be torture to lose Ron, especially to so close a friend.

Maybe she and Hannah Abbott could form a club?

Unable to stand anymore, she burst through the door. Both Harry and Ron jumped, and Ron's lap yowled at the sudden movement. Wait a moment…

"Hermione, I can explain!" Ron yelped, trying to soothe a spitting Crookshanks at the same time.

"Oh, you can, can you?!" Hermione said, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice.

"I can!" Ron said desperately. "It started a few months ago—he just came and sat in my lap one night, and you were working late, and I think we both missed you, and it's just sort of…grown since there. Now me and Crookshanks get on really well and I don't hate him anymore and he likes me and—"

"Wait, you and Crookshanks?!"

"Unless you have another cat hidden away somewhere…"

"No, I don't…you and _Crookshanks_? Are you…" She trailed off. Somehow, the thought of Ron and Neville getting it off seemed less ridiculous than the idea of Ron and Crookshanks being able to stand each other.

"I know it seems strange," Ron said. "You're—you're not mad, are you?"

"What? No! No, of course not," Hermione said, attempting an airy laugh. It didn't quite work and she sat down rather heavily in a chair, but Ron didn't seem to notice and looked relieved.

"Did you just get in?" he asked. She nodded, looking the other way so he wouldn't see her blush. "Fancy a cup of tea? I was just going to put the kettle on, and I could feed this one at the same time," he inclined his head towards the cat, who mewed excitedly. Hermione gave a stilted nod, and Ron smiled. "Excellent! Back in a few," he said, standing up.

Crookshanks followed him out of the room, winding around his legs and purring. As he passed through the doorway, Ron reached down and scratched his head, and Crookshanks nuzzled his hand affectionately. Hermione felt a momentary twinge of jealousy—Crookshanks was _her_ cat—but pushed it down, realising that Ron had been acting shifty for months because he was worried about her reacting badly, and that it had all nearly culminated in her thinking he was cheating on her with _Neville Longbottom_.

Really, this alternative was pretty sweet.

"So, how are you?" she asked, pulling her attention away from her boys and turning to Harry, who was watching her with an amused look on her face.

"Very well," he said gravely. "And you?"

"Good! I'm good. I'm really good," she said.

"I'm glad to hear it," Harry said, lips twitching. "By the way, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"What did you think we were on about, when you were listening at the door?"

"What?!" Hermione squeaked. "How did you…?"

"I could see your shadow coming through underneath the door—Ron's back was to you," he explained. "I wanted to see how long it'd take you to come in: I tried to be deliberately vague and make it sound as though there was something going on to see what conclusions you'd jump to."

"I didn't jump to any conclusions!" Hermione said, with dignity. Harry stared hard at her. "I ended up thinking he was having an affair with another bloke," she elaborated.

"Any bloke in particular, or…?" Harry asked, his lips twitching.

"…Neville."

When Ron arrived back in the room shortly afterwards, with three mugs of tea, a packet of biscuits and Crookshanks, they were both laughing so hard they couldn't speak to explain to him what was so funny. "Looks like it's just you and me then, mate," Ron said, shaking his head bemusedly at the cat as Harry and Hermione continued to laugh hysterically. Crookshanks purred.


	7. Chapter 7

**comepanicinmydisco**on tumblr left me the following prompt: _Ginny hangs around Sirius and Remus a lot at Grimmauld Place and Molly doesn't really approve. But, Ginny gets on with them on a different level because they just understand her (like her first year) and they make her laugh. She reminds them of James: confident, mischievous and a chaser?_

* * *

"Has he gone?"

Neither Remus nor Sirius batted an eyelid as Ginny Weasley crawled out of a kitchen cupboard at number 12, Grimmauld Place. "Charlie?" Remus asked politely, setting his teacup down on the table. Ginny nodded. "Yes, the coast is clear. He went chasing after the twins a few moments ago."

"Excellent," Ginny replied, dusting off her jeans in a business-like manner. "Time for phase two."

"Phase two?" asked Sirius, raising an eyebrow. Ginny tapped the side of her nose.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," she said. She grabbed a piece of toast from the table, and dashed off. Sirius and Remus exchanged glances, but before either of them could say anything, an irate looking Molly Weasley arrived in the kitchen.

"Good morning!" she snapped, making the phrase sound more like a death threat than a pleasant greeting. She began waving her wand viciously at various kitchen implements, muttering darkly under her breath the entire time, and Sirius was forced to duck to avoid being decapitated by a frying pan which flew across the room and landed on the range with an almighty crack.

"Er—is everything alright, Molly?" Remus asked tentatively.

"Fred and George!" she replied, all but throwing the bacon into the pan. "As if we don't have enough to worry about right now! Honest to _Merlin_, dying poor Charlie's hair pink!" Remus attempted various noises of sympathy, whilst Sirius hid his laughter behind a copy of the_Daily Prophet_. "It's not like they don't have younger siblings to think of, oh no!" Molly continued. "_What_ sort of example is this setting for Ron, and little Ginny?" Sirius and Remus both determinedly avoided each other's eye.

"I think 'little Ginny' can probably cope," the former muttered, as Molly huffed and puffed away.

"What was that?" Molly asked, whirling around. Raising seven children seemed to have given her the hearing of a bat—which wasn't entirely unsurprising, Sirius reflected, as he stammered his way through a feeble explanation about there being an interesting article in the paper this morning. "Well _that_ makes a change!" she said waspishly, and he resolved to keep his mouth shut.

* * *

"_And I don't need no potion baby, to make you fall for me! You can come right up here now and ride my broom for free!_"

"I had no idea you were a Hobgoblins fan, Ginny," Sirius said, entering the library to investigate the source of the singing. Ginny, who was ostensibly cleaning the entire room, cheerfully waved her feather duster at him.

"I thought you right recognise the lyrics," she grinned. "Though I've got to say, I'd have thought you might be able to come up with something a bit more…I don't know…subtle?"

Sirius stared. "I beg your pardon?"

"Ah yes," chuckled Remus, who had arrived behind his friend. "You're Stubby Boardman himself, aren't you?"

"Moony, what the fu—what are you talking about?" Sirius amended hastily, seeing Ginny eyeing him with interest.

"In the latest edition of _The Quibbler _magazine, there is an article suggesting that notorious escaped Death Eater and Stubby Boardman, lead singer of 80s sensation The Hobgoblins are one and the same person," Remus said. "Which, in fairness, is no more bizarre than some of the articles the _Prophet_ is running at the moment."

"Right," Sirius said slowly. "And what nutter writes this _Quibbler_ magazine?"

"Xeno Lovegood," Remus said. Sirius grinned fondly in remembrance.

"That figures."

"He's not quite as mad as he once was. He's less…out there since he had a kid," Remus said.

"And is the kid as bonkers as he is?" Sirius asked.

"Luna's not bonkers!" Ginny said indignantly. "She's one of my best friends!"

"She always was an excellent pupil," Remus said diplomatically. Sirius looked about to add something, when they heard loud footsteps on the stairs.

"Oh God!" Ginny cried, diving behind the nearest bookshelf and pulling a dust sheet over herself. "I'm not here, I'm not here!" she hissed.

"What—" Remus began, but Sirius dug an elbow into his ribs as Charlie Weasley—hair still faint shade of pink, which looked especially bizarre when mixed with his natural red—burst into the room.

"Have either of you seen my dear little sister?" he asked, all faux-saccharine.

"What's she done?" Sirius asked with interest.

"Dyed my hair pink and changed all my Puddlemere shirts to Holyhead Harpies ones, look!" Charlie said, holding one up as proof. "I don't know how she's done it, but I can't change them back. And I don't have time to be messing around with Charms textbooks, because I have to be packed and at the Ministry to get my Portkey back to Romania in two hours!"

"Have you tried reversing a colour change charm?" Remus asked. Charlie nodded. "If that won't fix it, it must be really quite advanced magic," he said diplomatically. "Are you sure that perhaps the twins…?"

"I thought that at first," Charlie sighed. "But the shirt thing happened whilst I was yelling at them for turning my hair pink—they couldn't have done it, I was with them the entire time. And anyway, they support the Magpies. Gin's the only one who supports Holyhead."

"Well, I think she was upstairs, cleaning out the third floor guestroom with your mother?" Sirius said helpfully.

"Thanks mate," Charlie replied. He shook his head at the shirt in his hands, before turning on his heel and leaving again. Shortly thereafter, Ginny emerged from beneath the dust sheet.

"You owe me," Sirius said at once.

"Oh, sure," Ginny replied. "I'll pay you back by not telling Fred and George who really stole their deck of Exploding Snap cards the other day."

Remus snorted. "May I ask why you're tormenting your brother?" he asked.

"He asked for it!" Ginny said at once. "He was trying to suggest that the only thing I could do for the Order was make the sandwiches to keep the menfolk happy, git. _And_ he used up all the hot water before I could shower, yesterday."

"You know, there is a charm that—" Remus began.

"I know there's a charm," she interrupted. "But I'm not of age; I can't do it here."

"Then how did you turn your brother's hair pink and do whatever it is you did to his shirts?" Sirius asked at once.

"His hair was a potion, and one that I didn't brew myself," Ginny said, looking smug. "And the shirts were quite simple: I stuffed the real ones in his suitcase, after getting them duplicated, and then charmed the duplicates to say Holyhead rather than Puddlemere. You can't charm them back because they're only duplicates—the spell'll wear off in a couple of hours and they'll vanish. And as for who did the charms…well, I merely had to hint to my favourite Auror that my brother was being mean to me, and…"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt?" asked Remus, puzzled.

"No, idiot," said Sirius, rolling his eyes. "My young cousin."

"Ah," said Remus, determinedly avoiding his gaze. Ginny looked between them, but before she could see anything, her mother burst into the library.

"Getting on with the cleaning, I take it?" she asked, and Ginny waved her feather duster like a talisman. "She's not distracting you, is she?" Molly added, turning to Sirius and Remus, though it was clear from her expression that she thought it more likely they would be distracting her. Remus tried very hard not to look guilty—reminding himself repeatedly that he was a thirty-six year old Professor and not a naughty schoolboy—and reassured Molly that Ginny was doing a splendid job of cleaning. "Good, good," Molly said vaguely. "Oh, by the way, Professor Dumbledore is stopping by this afternoon before the…" She glanced at her daughter, "_event_. I think he wanted to go over some…ah…_plans_ with you."

"We'll sort that out right away, Molly," said Remus, as Sirius rolled his eyes behind her back.

"Yes, you should. Oh—Ginny? Have you seen your brother, Charlie?"

"I think he's upstairs packing, Mum," Ginny said. "I wouldn't know; I've been working hard in here since breakfast."

"Hmm, yes," Molly said. "Good girl. Well, I'd best see if he's gone back to his room." She bustled off, and Ginny rearranged some books on the nearest shelf, looking as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

"You know, that's really quite impressive," Sirius laughed.

"I _am_ impressive," Ginny said. "And anyway, who does she think she's kidding, not mentioning anything in front of me like I'm five?! Like the whole house doesn't know what this mysterious _event_ tonight is. Who could you possibly be collecting? Might it be my Great-Aunt Muriel? Or might it be Harry Potter? Let's _think_."

Sirius laughed again, but Remus looked more serious. "You know, you really shouldn't—"

Before he could go any further, Molly Weasley's bellow of "Ginevra Molly Weasley, get up here _right now_!" cut him off, and Ginny pulled a face.

"Looks like you've been caught," Sirius said. "And the twins won't be happy if you tried to dob them in it…"

Ginny squared her shoulders. "I can handle this," she said, marching confidently out of the room.

"You know, I think she might actually be able to," Sirius said admiringly.

"I don't know: Molly _is_ the woman who raised Fred and George," Remus countered. "But, if anyone stands a chance, it's Ginny."

"She is quite shameless," Sirius agreed. "Hey—you know who she reminds me of?"

"Lily?" guessed Remus.

"What, because she's a bit ginger too?" Sirius snorted. "Nah—she's James all over."

"Really?"

"Oh, sure. James'd do the exact same thing when we got caught pranking someone, d'you remember? He'd smile and look charming and sweet-talk his way out of almost anything. You'd apologise and promise never to do it again like the good little boy you were; I'd just stand there like 'eh, yeah, I did it, what'cha gonna do about it?' and Pete…well, he'd try to copy all of that and fail. But James'd do what she does: just try to _nice_ her way out of trouble. And I'm guessing she's good friends with Xeno Lovegood's kid?" Remus nodded. "Thought so—she looked about to hex me when I was talking about them being nutters."

"And that is very James, I guess," Remus agreed. He chuckled suddenly.

"What?" asked Sirius.

"Listen," Remus said, nodding towards the ceiling. Molly Weasley's voice was reaching a crescendo, and though they couldn't hear the actual words she was saying, the general gist was quite clear from her tone: she wasn't happy.

"And I guess James'd try and sweet-talk his way out of things, and nine times out of ten, it wouldn't work for him either," sighed Sirius. "Those were the days, eh?"

"That they were," Remus said. A sudden crash from down the hallway meant even more noise: Mrs Black's voice could be heard screeching alongside Molly's. "Sounds like your mother's awake."

"Only one person knocks over that umbrella leg all the time," Sirius said, heading for the door somewhat resignedly. "Come on. You can ask dear Nymphadora for lessons in…what was it Ginny said? Duplicating charms? I'm sure she'd be more than willing to show you what she can do…"

"I am very glad that, after all these years, you haven't lost the ability to make an innuendo out of nothing," Remus said, a pained expression on his face.

"In-_your _-endo," Sirius said, and Remus hit him with Ginny's abandoned feather duster.


	8. Chapter 8

_From an anonymous tumblr'er, asking for Bill confessing to his family that he's ~in love~ with Fleur_.

"I'm going to ask her to marry me."

Charlie burst out laughing, then stopped once he realised Bill wasn't joining in. "You're not serious?" he asked.

"I am!" Bill protested. "I love her, she loves me, what comes next? Marriage. Obviously. Then a baby in a golden carriage but I don't think we've reached that point yet…"

"Obviously," Charlie said faintly. "Excuse me," he said a moment later, pointing his wand at Bill's face. "Who are you and what have you done with Bill Weasley?"

It was Bill's turn to laugh until he realised his brother wasn't kidding. "What, you're going to make me prove I am who I am?" he asked. Charlie raised an eyebrow at him, still not lowering his wand. "Fine. You, Nymphadora Tonks, summer after fifth year, the orchard behind—"

"Yeah yeah, alright," Charlie grumbled, lowering his wand. "You've made your point. I'm just surprised, is all. You've spent…what is it now…seven years? Eight? More? Living the life of some playboy bachelor and now you're going to marry some girl you've known for five minutes?"

"I haven't known her for five minutes! I've known her since August," Bill said, with dignity. "And Fleur's not 'some girl'."

"It's April, and you've only been officially dating since December," Charlie pointed out. "Forgive me if I'm a little surprised, is all."

"Well, you've met her," his brother said. "Why's it surprising? She's the most beautiful woman I've ever known, sure, but she's clever and funny—she's got this incredible dirty sense of humour—and she's kind and so loyal, she's—"

"She's _French_," said Charlie, unwilling to listen to his brother rave on (and on and on) about her.

"Nobody's perfect," Bill grinned, taking a swig of beer. "Look, I'm in love with her. I can't imagine wanting anyone else, ever. Ever. She's _it_ for me. And if I'm it for her…well, why hang about? Especially with the way things are…"

"She knows about You-Know-Who and all that?" asked Charlie.

"She wants to stay and fight," Bill said. Charlie raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, I know. She knew Diggory, apparently. She wants to make a stand for him. But she's good—damn good—with a wand. We'd be lucky to have her on our side, and I'd say that regardless of whether I'm in love with her or not."

"But you are," said Charlie.

"Are what?"

"In love with her."

"Yes," he said, and gave a sigh that was positively dreamy.

Charlie looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or be revolted. "Mate," he said, clapping his older brother on the back. "You've got it _bad_. Good luck to you."

* * *

"The thing is," Bill said, sitting up suddenly and looking at how much Firewhiskey the three of them had consumed. He tried hard to recall what the thing was. "Mum sent me round to give you both an earful and lead by example or…or something. To tell the truth, I don't really remember. So just…pretend that I've told you you should go back to school and don't mention this and we'll be good, yeah?"

"Perfect Prefect Head Boy Billy telling us to lie to Mum?" Fred asked, a gleam in his eye. "Well I never."

"This is a turn up for the books," agreed George.

"And getting us drunk as well!" Fred added.

"Certainly _not_ a good example," George said, shaking his head.

"Definitely not a good example," said Fred, eyeing his brother, who was now slumped on their sofa.

"I don't know when you two got old enough to drink me under the table," Bill groaned.

"Lightweight," laughed George. "You're letting the side down!"

"In more ways than one," added Fred. "We hear you're in lurve and gonna settle down and get married and have six kids, all inside the next ten minutes."

"Who told…ah. Charlie," Bill said. "He's a worse gossip than Mum."

"He's terrible," agreed George. "Now give us all the details."

Bill laughed, looking across their new flat from one twin's eager face to the other. "You're both incorrigible," he said, slurring the word only slightly. "But yes, I am in love. And we're going to get married. Though probably not within the next ten minutes. More like fifteen…or twenty."

"You've asked her?" Fred asked.

"We've talked about it, but I haven't officially asked her," Bill replied. "And I want to ask her Dad, first. Do it properly, you know?"

"_Man_ have you got it bad," he said, shaking his head in disgust.

"I don't know," shrugged George. "I remember her from last year at school. Fleur Delacour is one gorgeous girl."

"Fleur Weasley, soon," Bill said, a drunken, lovesick grin on his face, and the twins both groaned so loudly they woke their owl.

* * *

"Couldn't sleep?"

Bill, pacing around the garden, looked up at his father's voice. He shook his head.

"Me either," Dad confessed. "It's too damned hot."

"It is that," he agreed. "Even Egypt wasn't like this. It was a fresher sort of heat. I'd forgotten how…oppressive it gets here in the summertime."

"You've struggled with it since you were a kid," said Dad. "I remember your first summer, you'd grouch and cry all night because you were too hot. All the cooling charms on your cot, and we still couldn't get you off. Your Mum'd line it with ice cubes two hours before we put you down, and it still wouldn't make any difference."

Bill grinned ruefully. "Sorry about all that."

"Oh, you put up with it," Dad said. "All part of the fun of having kids, eh? I'm sure you'll know soon enough…"

"Well, at some point," Bill said hastily. "Fleur and I…we're not ready to take that step yet. And even if we were, there's a war on…"

"Didn't stop me and your Mum," Dad sighed. "Though I do sometimes wonder if that was a good idea…"

"No! No, Dad, don't think like that. I never remember being scared," Bill said. "I knew it was happening, I think, mostly because of Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon. But I honestly don't remember being that bothered by it when I was little. 'Course, now I see that was because of what you and Mum did to protect us all. But you didn't…it wasn't a bad thing to have had kids during a war. Fleur and I are more involved, though, it wouldn't be good for us. Besides, she's really young still—we don't want babies for a few years yet."

"That sounds very wise," Dad said. "Though your mother'll be devastated not to be knitting booties just yet."

Bill scoffed, and Dad looked at him sharply. "Oh, come on Dad. She _hates_ Fleur."

"She doesn't hate Fleur," Dad said mildly. "Oh, I know she's not crazy about her. But she doesn't hate her. Just give her time."

"More time to insult my fiancée? I—"

Dad placed a hand on his arm. "I have been talking to her. I promise it will get better soon," he said. "It's just hard for her to see her babies growing up and falling in love and moving away."

"Well, she should get used to it, because—wait, how did you know I am in love with her?" Bill asked.

"I'm your Dad, I know these things," Dad said, shrugging. "And there _was_ the small clue of the engagement ring you bought her…"

* * *

"Well, I can't say you haven't got a lot better since we last did that," Bill panted, dismounting from his broom.

Ginny followed him, laughing, makeshift Quaffle under her arm. "Nah, you're just old," she said. "And you were rubbish to begin with."

He shrugged. "Yeah, Quidditch never was my forte. You'll have to get someone better to play with you in the future," he said. "Like Fleur! She played on one of the school teams at Beauxbatons."

Ginny pulled a face. "No, she's good," he insisted, choosing to ignore it.

"Of course Little Miss Perfect At Everything is good at Quidditch," Ginny muttered under her breath.

"Pardon?" Bill asked, pretending not to hear that either.

"I said, I wouldn't think she'd want to risk breaking a nail, or something," Ginny said.

He sighed. "You know, if you got to know her, I'm sure you'd actually quite like her. You two are really quite similar."

Ginny scoffed. "_Really_."

"Really," he insisted. "You're both clever, talented witches; pretty; good at Quidditch; have a lot of friends and get far more attention from other boys than I'd like," he said pointedly.

"Well…I'm not _French_," Ginny said, casting around for something to disagree with.

"You're not," he agreed shortly. "But you should get to know her—she's going to be around for a while. I love her, you know."

"Give me your broom, I'll put them away," Ginny said tightly, by way of reply and held out her hand.

Bill sighed and handed it over. This whole summer was really not going the way he had planned…

* * *

"Wasgoinon?"

"Ssh, dear!" Mum was up like a shot, immediately hovering over Bill's bed as the late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the Hospital Wing's window. "You're alright," she soothed. She placed her cool hands on his face, and this helped with the pain, like it had for nearly thirty years.

"Where's Fleur?" he asked, once he could breathe through it again.

"I sent her away," Mum said. She must have read his expression even through the scars and bandages, because she hastily elaborated. "Just for a bit, to get some sleep. The poor girl's been awake for nearly forty hours, and I insisted she get some rest. I do understand that she wants to do nothing more than look after you, but she has to look after herself first. I got a good square meal in her, then we found a bed for her to have a nap in. And you must leave her be, whilst she gets her rest," she added, eyeing him beadily.

He gave the closest approximation to a laugh as was possible. "Don't really think I'm in a position to be leaving this bed, let alone room," he rasped.

Mum eyed him sternly. "I know exactly what you're capable of Bill Weasley. I'm your _mother_," she said. "And you let the poor love get some sleep. She's been hovering over you day and night since you were attacked, as you well know."

"Every time I'd open my eyes…and she was there…always there…" he managed. Mum tactfully looked away as he blinked several times. "Mum?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes?"

"How bad is it?"

"How bad is what, dear?"

"You _know_."

"It's…" Mum sighed. "Well. I know I was wrong about Fleur but…well, even the Molly Weasley of last week would not have blamed her in the slightest if she had taken one look at your face and hightailed it back to France."

"Really? You wouldn't have blamed her _at all_?"

"I'd have blamed her to your face, if that's what you had wanted, to get over her," Mum said diplomatically, and he coughed out a laugh again.

"Mum?"

"Yes dear?"

"I love her."

"I know dear. And you know what? I think you might have made a good choice."

* * *

_Dear Percy,_

_I know Mum has already sent you one of these, and I know you've ignored it, but I wanted to send you an invite too despite the fact that you're a massive git._

_If you're still reading this…you are a git, and you know it. But no one's perfect, me least of all. I know you always felt like you didn't belong in this family, but you do, even now, despite the gittishness(crossed out) gittery (crossed out again) what you did._

_Anyway, I really would like it if you could come to the wedding. It'd make Mum happy (and Dad even happier) and I promise to hide the parsnips and any other root vegetables we have from Ginny and the twins. Charlie's even coming from Romania and you have to join in the family bets on the Ron/Hermione will they/won't they at the wedding. And did you know Harry's dating our baby sister? We need to have words._

_Mostly I'd like you to come to meet Fleur because she is…well, I've been struggling for whole minutes to find one word to describe just how wonderful she is. There isn't just one. But to save the parchment: I'm in love with her. And when you're in love with someone, you want to show them off to everyone else you love, even to wankers like you._

_I miss you, Percy._

_—B_

* * *

"There's no point," Ron said listlessly. "She'll hate me."

Bill noted that Ron had reverted back to using 'she' and not 'they', and raised an eyebrow at Fleur, who got the hint. "I will go and make some tea, I zhink and per'aphs bring up some mince pies goodbye!" she trilled in one breath, leaving the spare bedroom at lightning speed. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes—subtlety was not her strong point.

"She won't hate you," he ventured cautiously, once she had left. "Neither will Harry."

Ron just turned away from him, and Bill sighed, perching on the end of the spare bed. It was a tight fit: his brother's feet dangled off the end, as he was even taller than him now. "I promise, she won't. Fleur and I argue all the time, this is—"

"This is _nothing_ like you and Fleur," Ron spat viciously, turning back towards him. "This isn't some cute little domestic. This is _real_."

Bill didn't even mind Ron's anger: it was the first time, since he'd arrived, that he'd actually shown any emotion or feeling. He was glad; he could not reconcile empty, listless Ron with the brother he'd known all his life. "Fleur and I honestly do argue," he said. "It's part of a healthy relationship."

Ron snorted. "You've never done anything terrible like this, though," he said. "You've never left her." The listless tone was back, and he turned away again.

"I have," Bill said quietly. "Twice." Ron sat up so sharply he cracked his head off one of the beams holding the roof up, and swore. Bill snorted, then immediately rearranged his features at Ron's glare.

"Bloody hurts," he muttered. Bill looked out of the window, knowing eventually Ron's curiosity would get the better of him. "So, what did you do? Why did you leave her?" he asked, as if on cue.

"I didn't exactly leave her—I more tried to persuade her to leave me," Bill said. Ron rubbed his head, and gestured for him to carry on. "The first time, she'd just found out about all the Order business and she told me she wanted to join. I didn't want her too—I was too scared about losing her. Her dying, I mean. So I said some truly terrible stuff that I didn't mean, hoping she'd leave me because I was a git—and she did. Then, when she figured out why I'd said the things I'd said, called her the names I had, and that I didn't mean it, she came back and beat some sense into me. And pointed out that she'd join the Order regardless of whether she was dating me, so…it wasn't exactly tough to start being with her again."

"That's not the same thing," Ron said at once. "That's you being all noble and shit—like Harry leaving Ginny. Only he wasn't idiot enough to try to call her names in the hope she'd dump him."

"Wise kid," Bill said, remembering Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex. "You're right. What I did was bad—but it wasn't as bad as the second time."

"You pull a girl like Fleur and you try to leave her not once but _twice_?" Ron asked.

Bill grinned ruefully. "Not the brightest, am I? No, this time was just after Dumbledore's funeral. I'd gone past the initial phase of being bowled over by the act of her staying with me and had seen my face. I have to live with this for the rest of my life—there's no reason she does."

"But you—"

"I tried to explain it," he continued loudly. "But she wouldn't have it. So I…and I am not proud of this…I bought a Portkey to France and tried to trick her into taking it. She was so angry with me she nearly cancelled the wedding."

"Because you tried to make her leave you?"

"Because I tried to trick her; tried to make her do something without her consent. And _that_ is the worst thing you can do in a relationship—doesn't matter who you are. I really had to work to get her trust back after that."

"But she still married you?"

"She loves me; I love her," Bill shrugged. "Loving someone doesn't mean you won't make mistakes though, or do idiotic things sometimes."

"So what do I do?" Ron asked, after a very long silence.

"Find them. Go back. Show them you're sorry, don't just tell them. And it'll be okay," Bill said reassuringly.

"You really think?"

"I really do. You and Harry have been friends for so long now, there's no way he wouldn't forgive you."

"And Hermione?"

"Hermione? Well…she's a woman. She'll probably want to hex your bits off—might actually do it, so I'd maybe try a localised shield charm if you know what I mean—but you should be okay in the end."

"She doesn't go for hexing bits," Ron said. "She's got this…she likes birds. Tiny little ones, that attack you," he elaborated, as Bill looked puzzled.

"Oh, I know zhat Charm," Fleur said brightly, reappearing in the doorway and levitating a tray of tea and mince pies. "_Oppungo_!"

Both Weasleys flinched instinctively, and she cackled gleefully.

* * *

"Well, I am very glad you are keeping my empty head entranced using all zhese love potions," Fleur said. "Please never stop."

"What on earth are you on about, woman?" Bill asked, as she sat down beside him. "Sausage?" he added, offering her the one he had been toasting on the campfire moments before.

Fleur winked at him, biting the tip off, and he grinned at her wolfishly. "Our favourite journalist, Rita Skeeter, 'as been writing about our family in the paper again. We appear about two thirds of the way down."

Bill skimmed the newspaper she had handed him. "Huh, well, she's hit the nail on the head for once. I am _for sure_ keeping you with me using a combination of enchantments, love potions, blackmail and kidnap. Not that it's hard when you're so…what was it? Oh yes, 'empty headed'," he shrugged.

"Oh, Mr Weasley, never stop!" Fleur sighed, throwing her arms around him.

"She did get one thing right—kind of," Bill said. "If you read between the lines a bit, she's implying that I'm madly in love with you. And for the first time in her life, I think she might have printed a truth."

"Goodness me!" Fleur said, and he smiled. "What a good job I love you, too."

"All these years and I'm still not over hearing you say that," he said, kissing her.

She kissed him back with passion, until he tore himself away suddenly moments later. "What? What ees it?" she asked, alarmed.

"_What_ did she say about Victoire and the Lupin boy?!"


	9. Chapter 9

_This was requested by diva-gonzo on tumblr, using the a prompt from someone else's list. So that's something else I don't own! (Full credit on my tumblr.)_

* * *

"Oh my _God_," Ginny said, twirling around as they left the cinema. "That was amazing! Let's go again!"

Harry laughed. "Well, I'm glad you liked it," he said. "I think next Wednesday, they're showing—"

"No, let's go again _now_," Ginny said. "And see it again. I want to see it again _right now_!" She looked so completely delighted that, at that moment, Harry would willingly have sat through _Mulan_ for the remaining five showings of the day—until it was taken off the cinema's list, if he had to. "It was _so good_!" she said now. "The bit where she—" She mimed stabbing an invisible Hun. "And then she—"

She continued play-acting her favourite scenes, which appeared to be all of them, and Harry watched her, relieved to see her smiling so much again. He had taken her to the cinema as an early birthday present, but also because going out in the wizarding world appealed to neither of them. He hadn't been sure she'd like the idea of watching a film, nor had he any idea what was even showing these days, but he'd seen the word 'Disney' on the _Mulan_ poster in the cinema's entrance and figured that he couldn't go too far wrong. He was right: Ginny had been stunned, then awed, then finally delighted by the film and all he cared about was seeing her finally smiling again after so long.

In fact, he was so busy staring at her that he didn't see the small pothole in the pavement and tripped over, causing her to fall about laughing again. When he didn't get up immediately, however, she stopped. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Harry grimaced. "I've hurt my ankle," he said, pulling up the left leg of his jeans and rolling down his sock.

She crouched down beside him, realising at once that if Harry was actually admitting to being injured, this was unlikely to be just a scratch. She pulled a face as she saw his ankle. "Wow, that's swollen up already," she said. She reached out and touched it as gently as she could, and Harry hissed in pain. "Do you think you've broken it?" she asked.

"I don't think so," Harry replied. "I think it'd hurt more if it was a break, but it's still pretty painful."

"Could be just a sprain," Ginny said, though she sounded doubtful. "Still—not to worry," she added, brightening. "We'll get you home and Mum'll have it fixed in a jiffy! You won't even have to go to the hospital."

"Yeah, I imagine she got quite good at fixing breaks and sprains with you lot around as kids," Harry said dryly.

"Just a bit," Ginny agreed. "Now, how are we going to get home?"

"I'll apparate us," Harry said. "But we can't do it here, in broad daylight. There's an alleyway just down there, see? It should be pretty secluded there, no muggles will see us. I'll side-along you."

"That's great," Ginny said patiently. "But how are we going to get _there_? You can't walk."

"I'll be fine," Harry said, brushing off her concern. "Just help me up, could you?"

Ginny looked like she was going to argue with this statement, but instead pursed her lips, got into position, and, with Harry's arm around her shoulders, helped him to his feet. "Aarghhh," Harry moaned softly, as he tentatively tried putting his foot on the ground again.

Ginny bit back the 'told you so'. "How are you going to get all the way over there?" she asked, pointing. The alleyway wasn't far—only about a hundred meters away or so—but it may as well have been on the moon for all it looked like Harry was going to be able to get there. Stupid, noble _Gryffindor _boyfriend...

"I'll be _fine_," he insisted, gritting his teeth. She raised an eyebrow. "If I could just...lean on you though, that would be great."

"I could carry you," she offered.

"Don't be bloody ridiculous," Harry answered.

"_Fine_," Ginny said. "Though I'll tell you what's bloody ridiculous: you! The Chosen One—Voldemort himself couldn't kill you, but a little bit of pavement? You're a goner! That'll teach you for leering at me." She stuck her nose in the air primly, and Harry laughed.

"Oh, shut up," he said. "Come on. Let's go." Very slowly, they hobbled their way towards the alley. About halfway there, he asked, sentences coming in short gasps because of the pain, "So you...liked the...film then?"

"It was _amazing_," Ginny said, her previous enthusiasm coming back. "Absolutely amazing. Can we see another?"

"Of course," Harry said. "I haven't been...to the cinema in...years and years—the Dursleys weren't exactly...big on treats, you know?" Realising the amount of pain he must be in to be breathing so disjointedly, Ginny slowed her pace significantly. "You can get films to watch on televisions, which have miniature versions of the screen we watched it on, in your house, though. Even Dudley used to like Disney films," Harry continued.

"I thought the film was called _Mulan_?" Ginny asked, as they paused for a rest by a bin.

"It was," Harry replied. "But Disney is the company that make the film. They do lots of cartoons for children."

"Cartoons?"

"Pictures—moving ones. Drawings, like we saw," Harry explained. "But some films are made with real people, acting, like at a theatre but even grander because they can add all sorts of different scenery or special effects."

Ginny absorbed this. "_Wow_," she said, with feeling. Harry laughed. "You know—we'll have to take Dad to one. He'd love it."

"Mmm," said Harry. He liked Arthur Weasley a lot, and had no doubt that, with his affection for all things muggle, he would have enjoyed seeing the film even if it was ostensibly meant for children. However, as he was also hoping to introduce Ginny to that other great cinematic tradition—snogging in the back row—he was reluctant to encourage her to bring her father along.

The pain in his ankle pulled his thoughts away from that more pleasant direction, and back to reality. "Come on, then," he said, and Ginny nodded. Together, they hobbled their way into the alleyway, and, after checking several times that the area was clear of muggles, he apparated them both back to the Weasley's home.

Unfortunately, he landed right onto his bad ankle and collapsed again, with a yelp of pain. Ginny winced sympathetically. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Not your fault," he grunted. "Never mind. Not far to go, now."

Ginny straightened up, and glanced around, biting her lip. "Um..."

Harry looked up at once. "What? I didn't take us to the wrong place, did I?" he asked.

"Not exactly," she said apologetically. "There's the house," she added, pointing. "And here's us."

"Ah," said Harry.

"Indeed," she agreed.

He had apparated them to the Weasley's house—almost. They were at the bottom of the hill, and the house was at the top. The hill was not terribly steep—more of a gentle slope than anything else, but Harry still seemed to wilt, looking at it.

"It'll be fine," Ginny said, trying to inject more confidence into her voice than she felt. "I'll help you again, and in ten minutes Mum'll have fixed this so you won't feel anything anymore, you'll see."

"Great," Harry said flatly. She helped him up again, but even with him leaning almost all of his weight on her, he could barely take a couple of steps. "Don't think landing on it helped," he grunted, as they stopped for a rest having travelled basically no distance.

"You don't say," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "Honestly." After another few moments of absolutely no progress, an idea struck her. "_Did they send me daughters, when I asked for sons_?" Ginny sang, under her breath.

"What?" he asked. It took him a moment to realise she was quoting the film they had seen earlier.

"Harry, face me," she instructed. He turned, so he was standing in front of her. "_We must be swift as a coursing river, with all the force of a great typhoon_," she sang again. He wasn't sure what she wanted him to do—dance? Sing along with her?

"_With all the strength of a raging fire, mysterious as the dark side of the mooooon_!" On the last word, she crouched down and grabbed his legs, swinging him over her shoulder with a grunt.

"Ginny, _what_ are you playing at?" he asked, astounded.

"Getting you...up this hill!" she grunted. Considering his size in comparison to hers, she was fairly powering up the slope. He knew she had done some weight training as part of her Quidditch practise, but this—_this_ was insane. He wanted to wriggle out of her grasp, sure she'd injure herself, but he was wary of kicking her, and, from his rather difficult vantage point, he had managed to ascertain that they were already about halfway up the hill, and travelling much faster than they had been before.

"Ginny, for Merlin's sake, put me down!"

"No," she grunted at him.

"Please put me down, it's just a sprained ankle!"

This time she ignored him, continuing on up the hill. She was breathing fit to burst, and he realised she must have absolutely no energy left to spare to respond, but was still reluctant to move in case he injured her further. Still he continued to implore her to put him down with greater and greater urgency, positive that this would not end well—for her or him.

"Ginny? Ginny! What's going on?!" he heard Mrs Weasley's voice call.

Great. She must have been in the garden, watching his humiliation. He was _Harry Potter_—survivor of death on numerous occasions, only to be felled by a pavement. Not only that, he then had to be carried by his girlfriend—in front of her mother! Typical.

Having reached the top of the hill, and The Burrow's garden gate, Ginny placed Harry back down on the grass and doubled over, panting heavily. "Are you okay?" he asked, but she waved him away, collapsing onto all fours.

"Will someone _please_ tell me what is going on?" Mrs Weasley asked, bustling over. "What in Merlin's name are you two up to?!"

Fortunately for Harry, once Ginny had caught her breath enough to explain about his sprained ankle, her mother had been able to fix it in a trice, with just a simple spell (although she still made him sit with it elevated and iced).

Less fortunately, Ron had witness the entirety of him being lugged up the hill by his girlfriend from his bedroom window, which he had nearly fallen out of laughing so hard, and so Harry had to endure endless teasing from him and the rest of Ginny's brothers when he shared what had happened to the Saviour of the Wizarding World with them. They got him a walking stick for when the two of them next went on a date, and, though they did go back to the cinema, he was never again able to summon up quite the enthusiasm for _Mulan_ that he had first had...

* * *

**Author's note: **_Mulan_ did indeed come out in the summer of 1998 (I checked! I originally wanted them to see _Hercules_, because Ginny = Meg, right? But that came out in '97 and so wouldn't have been shown in cinemas by the summer of '98. And no, _of course_, I couldn't take any liberties with the timings. Fic must be 100 percent accurate ofc ;) ), and I should add that in addition to not owing anything associated with Harry Potter, I don't own the lyrics to I'll Make A Man Out Of You, either. Sadly.


	10. Chapter 10

_Requested by literally-s-a-m-e on tumblr, "The skirt is short on purpose", with Harry/Ginny. Set early HBP._

* * *

"I'm actually a little bit nervous," Hermione said, picking idly at a loose thread on the hem of her jeans. "I'm not crazy about flying, but if I have to do it, I'd rather have both hands on the broom, you know?"

"Mmhmm," Ginny said. She was wearing just her t shirt and a pair of pants, riffling through her chest of drawers. "You'll be okay, though," she said confidently. "If you don't want to let go of the broom, block the ball with your body—let it fly into you."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Won't that hurt?"

"Nah. At least, not with the ball we're playing with—we'll just charm some apples, it's what we normally do. You won't even notice it hitting you," she replied. Closing the drawer with a sigh, she went over to the wardrobe and yanked open the door. "The only thing is, if it or you are going fast enough, you might end up with bits of squashed apple all over your clothes. But Mum can wash them easily enough. A_ha_! Found you!" she added, satisfied, as she pulled something out of the wardrobe.

"Is that why you're changing?" Hermione asked, nodding towards the jeans that lay in a heap on the floor. "So you don't ruin your clothes?"

"Something like that," Ginny replied, wriggling into the skirt she'd pulled from the wardrobe. It was a light wash denim number, and very, very small. Hermione could no longer see her underwear—but only just. "There. How do I look?"

"Very nice," Hermione replied at once, "but…isn't that a bit…revealing for playing Quidditch?"

"It's just a knockabout game in the garden," Ginny replied. "And the skirt is short on purpose. It's much easier to ride a broom in a very short skirt than a long one that ends up getting in the way. Come on!"

Hermione decided not to mention the practicalities of jeans, grabbed her trainers and headed downstairs with Ginny. She noticed the other girl walking strategically by her side, in step with her, as they passed Mrs Weasley in the kitchen, but they slowed down as they headed towards the broomshed.

"You'll be fine," Ginny said again, noticing her hesitation. "You can have one of the really old brooms, they're nice and slow—or a learner one, with stabilisers. And, if you're on my team, I'll do all the throwing and catching."

"And if you're not?"

"Then I'll pick on either Ron or Harry, depending on who you end up with. Probably both regardless, actually. I'll leave you out of it, I promise." She picked up her pace as the boys waved them over. "C'mon! It'll be loads of fun!"

* * *

"Wasn't I right?" Ginny asked, as the two of them changed again for dinner, freshening up after an afternoon in the orchard. "It _was_ fun!"

"It actually was!" Hermione replied, sounding both pleased and surprised. Ginny laughed.

"You see? We'll have you on the Gryffindor team in no time."

"I wouldn't go that far," Hermione said immediately. "It's one thing playing in your back garden, but I don't think I could play with all that gear on that you have to wear. My cloak would end up over my head and I'd be flying around blind, I just know it."

"I told you," Ginny said smugly. "Short skirts. They make flying _so_ much easier!"

"Of course," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "It's not like jeans have been invented, or anything…"

"I can't think _what_ you mean!" Ginny said primly. "My outfit was very practical for flying."

"Which is _obviously_ why you chose it," Hermione replied, sitting down on Ginny's bed. "It of course had _nothing_ to do with a certain other player who was not me or your brother…" Ginny turned the faintest shade of pink.

"I can't think _what_ you mean!" she said again, and Hermione laughed.

"Ginny, he's not _blind_," she said. "Well, at least not with his glasses. He noticed…"

"Did he really?" Ginny asked, studiedly casual.

"_Ginny_. He nearly flew into a tree. Five times!"

"Maybe he does need those glasses checking," she shrugged, clearly trying not to look too pleased.

"Oh come _on_! 'This skirt is short for flying' my foot!"

"Now, Hermione," Ginny said, raising her eyebrows at her. "I think you're being terribly hypocritical. Don't act like you've suddenly discovered a great love for Quidditch—or a desire to hang out with me and Harry more often…" Hermione didn't respond, pointedly, and Ginny all but cackled. "Hah! For you, playing Quidditch is like…a _metaphorical_ short skirt. But, hey, don't worry. If it doesn't work, you can always borrow this one. I'm sure Ron would love—"

Hermione threw a pillow at her.


	11. Chapter 11

"Let's see…we've got the uniform sorted, and the books, and the cauldron…I think there's something else, but I just can't think what it might be!"

"_Daddy_! You know what it is!"

"Hmm…is it perhaps…potions ingredients?"

"Daddy! It's my _wand_!"

"Oh yes," Harry said with the air of a man who had just discovered something truly unbelievable. "Your wand. How could I forget?"

"Silly Daddy," Lily said, shaking her head.

"That's men for you, isn't Lily-Loo?" Ginny said conspiratorially.

"_Men_!" their daughter huffed, sounding exactly like Hermione at her most exasperated with Ron. Harry caught his wife's gaze, then hurriedly looked away. It would not do for Lily to think she was being laughed at.

"Come on, this way," Ginny said, steering them down Diagon Alley. Lily skipped on ahead, but when they reached Ollivander's wand shop, she slowed, lingering in the doorway.

"Come on," Harry said encouragingly, pushing the door open.

Lily slipped her hand inside her mother's, and Ginny shrugged at Harry behind her back. By the time they had made their way over to the counter, Harry was already conversing with Mr Ollivander. "Ah, so this is the young Miss Potter," he said, peering at her over the top of the counter. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Hello," Lily said in a small voice.

"We were hoping to find Lily a wand today," Ginny said brightly. Lily squeezed her hand. "May we make a start?"

"Of course, of course," said Mr Ollivander. "Come here, child, and let me measure you." Ginny stepped forward, prepared to accompany her daughter, but Lily squared her shoulders and let go of her mother's hand. Mr Ollivander drew out his ancient tape measure and asked her to extend her wand arm. "How are your brothers' wands working? Well, I hope."

"Um, yes," Lily said. "They're…good."

"Excellent, excellent," said Mr Ollivander. "Of course, I would expect nothing less from an Ollivander product. And I am proud to say I now have your entire family. Hmm…" He wandered away, and Lily eyed the tape measure, which was continuing to move around her body. "Yes, young James and Albus, and of course both your parents—your mother a year later, of course, but that could not be helped…" Lily threw a questioning glance at her mother, who just shook her head. "And your father's parents, and your mother's parents…many years ago, of course," Mr Ollivander continued vaguely. "I remember every one, naturally. But I think…perhaps…this one!" he finished abruptly, thrusting a wand at Lily. She jumped, but took it from him.

"Um…" she said, for the tape measure was now trying to measure the length of her eyebrows.

"Enough!" snapped Mr Ollivander, and it fell to the ground. "Now, just wave that around, go on."

Lily tried to remember what her parents looked like when they were performing magic, and swished the wand through the air, producing a few red sparks. Harry and Ginny exchange startled glances: it had taken at least twenty different wands before James had managed so much as a single spark, and they had been in the shop over an hour with Albus. But before either of them could say anything, Ollivander had whipped the wand from her hands, and was already insisting she try a different one.

The next few wands produced little to no reaction in Lily, but the seventh, when waved, gave off several bright green sparks. "Oh!" Lily said, looking delighted, as her parents clapped and cheered, but Mr Ollivander shook his head again and took it off her.

"Not quite, not quite…" he muttered, and Lily looked at her parents in consternation. They shrugged, growing still more mystified when wand after wand produced some kind of reaction in Lily's hands, but the wandmaker still seemed unconvinced. "I think…this might be the one," he said eventually, once the pile of used wands in front of them had grown well into double figures.

Lily had begun to look quite bored by this point, but obediently took it, and gasped at once. "It's…warm?" she said. Mr Ollivander looked smug.

"Go on then, wave it," he said. Lily waved the wand, and an immediate shower of sparks, all colours of the rainbow, danced through the room. Harry and Ginny exchanged wide-eyed glances, whilst Lily shrieked with delight, waving the wand in front of her like a sparkler and spelling out her name with the many different colours. "Oh, bravo, bravo!" Mr Ollivander said, looking as happy as Harry had ever seen him.

"Mummy, look! Look, Daddy, look!" Lily cried, waving it around again. Ginny whooped and cheered, and Harry clapped his hands for her.

"That's pretty impressive," he said, and Lily glowed.

"It's willow, nine and three-quarter inches, with a unicorn hair," Mr Ollivander said. "An interesting choice." Lily looked up, and the sparks stopped. "Yes, very interesting. We have a family proverb that says, 'he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow', and I certainly find that willow wands select those with greatest potential. You must be a remarkable girl, Miss Potter."

"Can I buy it, please?" she asked him.

"I think it would be criminal for me _not_ to let you take it away," he said. "But, after everything your family has done, there is no need for you to pay, you can—"

"Lily, why don't you and Mummy go to the Ice Cream Parlour and get something nice to eat? I'll get your wand, and meet you there soon," Harry said loudly. Lily was initially reluctant to part with her wand, but Mr Ollivander assured her he had to wrap it in its own special box, and Ginny promised her her choice of ice cream, and so they left the shop.

"Do I have great potential?" she asked, as the door closed behind them. "What for?"

"Everyone has potential," Ginny said. "You could potentially become a great _anything_."

Lily considered this. "So, what did Mr Ollivander mean? And the thing about travelling quickly?"

"Well, wandmakers have always had lots of folklore about the things they use to make their wands. Each wand wood is supposed to be good for different things, or select a witch or wizard who is well known for having a particular talent," her mother said. "So, in the past, it would seem that he has noticed that people who use willow wands have a lot of potential, and maybe it helps them on their journeys. I don't really know."

"You don't know?!" Lily asked, sounding amazed.

Ginny stifled a smile. "I don't know _everything_," she said. "Mr Ollivander certainly knows more about making wands than I do. But also, wandlore can be quite vague. It's a bit like Divination. You can make a prediction, but whatever you predict doesn't affect people's free will. It still might not come true, because a person might chose not to do a certain thing that the prophecy said they would."

"So I _don't_ have a lot of potential?" Lily blinked.

"I didn't say that," Ginny said. "But, I think everyone has potential. It doesn't matter what your wand says—or doesn't say—about you."

"Huh," said Lily.

"Choose an ice cream," Ginny advised, for they had arrived at Fortescue's. They both ordered ice creams and took seats in a booth, digging in without waiting for Harry to arrive.

"Mummy, what did Mr Ollivander mean about you getting your wand a year late?" Lily asked.

Ginny swallowed a large piece of ice cream, considering her response. "You know how Gran and Grandad Weasley didn't have very much money when your Uncles and I were growing up?" Lily nodded. "They couldn't afford to buy me a wand for my first year, so I had my Great Aunt Agatha's, who had died the year before I went to Hogwarts. Then, at the start of my second year, we won the Daily Prophet's grand draw, which is when we went to Egypt. And there was enough money left over to buy me and Uncle Ron new wands. He'd had Uncle Charlie's old one."

"I thought you said the other day that everyone should have their own wand for it to work best?" Lily asked, confused.

"I did, but in a pinch you can make another's wand work," Ginny said. "And I didn't know any different, when I was using her wand. When I got my own…well, it was almost as impressive as you were in the shop!" Lily was still frowning. "What's up?" her mother prompted.

"Mr Ollivander wanted to give me my wand," she said. "Daddy helped him, during the war, didn't he? I remember you saying…"

"Yes," Ginny said slowly.

"But Daddy doesn't like people giving him stuff for free," Lily continued. "That's why he made us leave, so he could force Mr Ollivander to take the money, I reckon."

Ginny stifled a smile. "You're a very perceptive young lady," she said.

"Yes, well, Daddy and us—we've all got lots of money," Lily said. "We don't need free stuff, but people always try to give us free things. And you didn't have any money at all growing up, and no one gave you free things, but you really needed them. That's not fair!"

Ginny bit her lip. "It's not," she agreed. "It's not fair. But also—do you really think Gran and Grandad would accept something for free?"

"You took them the tomatoes from the garden the other day," Lily pointed out. "You didn't make them pay."

"No," her mother agreed. "But Granny often gives us eggs from her chickens. That's an exchange. It's not charity. You can offer someone help, but you can't _insist_ they take it. Some people don't like charity, because they think it implies they're not good enough to look after their own family or their own home. But not everyone—some people are very grateful for it."

"That's silly," Lily said, frowning. "Everyone should be able to afford what they need and if they don't they should get help. If they want it. I'm going to make sure of it."

Ginny laughed. "Sounds like you're going to be a politician!" she said. "Maybe that's your great potential."

"What's going on?" Harry had joined them.

"Lily is considering a career in politics, working to right the wrongs of a system that offers free stuff to those who don't need it and not to those who do," Ginny said.

"Ah," said Harry. "Sounds like a good morning's work, at least."

"Do you have my wand?" Lily asked, bouncing up and down in her seat.

"I do," Harry said. "All present and correct—and paid for."

"Yay!" Lily said, taking it out and waving it around to produce more rainbow coloured sparks. She frowned in concentration, then waved it again, and only red sparks came out. She smiled in satisfaction.

"Very impressive," Ginny said. "You'll be outmagicing your brothers in no time."

Lily looked delighted. "They're not allowed to use magic in the holidays!" she said gleefully.

"Neither are you," Ginny said at once, frowning at her husband to back her up. Harry, who had been stealing some of her ice cream, swallowed hastily.

"No," he said, "I mean, yes. No magic. Not until you're of age."

"But, Daddy, I don't know how to perform magic," Lily said blinking. "I only know how to make sparks. So there's _nothing _I could do to them that they can't do to me."

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I think your mother's right, you _are_ going to be a politician with that tricky attitude," Harry said.

"Is that bad?" Lily asked.

"Nah. You can be whatever you want to be," he replied.

"Can I be a Professional Ice Cream Eater?" Lily asked.

"No," Ginny said, having stolen her own back from her husband. "That's _my_ job!"

"You can have it whilst I'm at school," Lily said magnanimously, her attention already focussed purely on her new wand. Harry and Ginny looked at each other, and smiled.

_If you look on the Pottermore wand wood list, a lot of my headcanon for Lily Luna matches up with that of Willow wand owners :)_


	12. Chapter 12

"Oi, I've got yet another box of crap for you here! Where'd you want me to shove—oh. You're not Bill."

Not-Bill raised an eyebrow. "I am not," she agreed. "You can leave the 'box of crap' on the table." Ron flushed slightly, and took extra care when placing the box on the table. "Thank you for bringing it over," Fleur said. "I know it ees a busy time for you…"

Ron shrugged. "It's okay," he said. "I've finished school, I've got no work to be doing and it's not like I'd be a big help planning a fancy wedding—no offense. I may as well help you guys move your stuff in here."

"I was thinking more of your…'ow you say…mission," Fleur said. "I know that planning it keeps you very busy; Hermione also."

"Mission? Er—we're not planning anything!" Ron said, his voice rising on the last word and belying his attempt at casualness. "So, this is your new place, eh? Lovely…uh…decor. And a great view, too! Lots of…garden. I don't know what else you would want in a house. It's…smashing!"

"You are a terrible liar," Fleur said, smiling. Ron paled. "The décor is 'ideous and the garden is tiny." He visibly relaxed again. "And you are _most definitely_ planning something." His shoulders slumped, and Fleur took pity on him. "Relax, Ron. I am not going to tell you that you cannot or should not go. But you should know that your entire family knows that you and 'Arry and Hermione have a…a quest or a mission that you must fulfil and not all of them will be…supportive."

"A quest?" Ron asked, thinking of the quests that Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle was always on in his comics and trying to correlate that with their instructions to kill You-Know-Who seven times over.

Fleur made an impatient noise in her throat. "Oh, you know my English. It ees not so good."

"Actually, it's got a lot better," Ron said, surprising himself. "Since the days of the Tournament, you know."

"That feels like a long time ago now, doesn't it?" Fleur asked wistfully. Ron shrugged. "Would you like some tea?" she asked suddenly. Ron hesitated. He got the feeling that Fleur wanted to interrogate him about his mission—maybe she had been put up to it by Bill, who had tried something similar the other day but failed to get any answers out of him—but it was a hot, stuffy day and if he went back to the overcrowded Burrow, he'd either be roped into helping Bill pack up more of his belongings, or making wedding favours (whatever _those_ were). Down on the Cornish coast, the sea breeze made things cooler and much more pleasant, and there was no denying that Bill and Fleur's new house was peaceful and less populous. He nodded.

"Go sit in the living room," Fleur said, pointing through the door, and Ron left the kitchen. He had thought that that had been sparsely furnished—aside from the table and two chairs, it contained nothing except cupboards and a counter—but the living room was even barer. The walls were painted a horrible yellow-green shade and the purple and brown carpet had the busiest pattern he'd ever seen. The only furniture in the room was an old bookshelf, and three boxes stacked atop one another.

Truth be told, he found it hard to imagine either Bill or Fleur living there. Bill had always been something of an adventurer, and him getting married and settling down in a cottage with a (literal) picket fence seemed ridiculous. As for Fleur, he couldn't imagine her living anywhere that wasn't positively palatial, and this rickety old building with its hideous furnishings and deep coating of grime was anything but. And her as a housewife, bustling around like his mother did, seemed about as likely as Harry joining forces with the Death Eaters.

She came in a few minutes later, levitating a tray, and conjured two cushions. "'Ow do you take your tea?" she enquired, pouring it into a mug from the teapot.

"Uh—milk and two sugars, please," Ron replied. Fleur made it as he asked, then passed him the mug. She added a squeeze of lemon to her own mug, something which seemed like anathema to his British sensibilities, then settled down cross-legged on one of the cushions she had conjured. He joined her on the other, leaning against the wall, and realised at once that she had proved his earlier thoughts wrong: clad in jeans, an old t-shirt of Bill's and with a bandana made out of an old tea towel on her head to keep the dust out of her hair, she certainly wasn't a housewife like his mother. But, in her own way, she was still homely: she had remembered to bring out milk and sugar with the tea, though it was never something she'd add herself, and she had fussed around him, making sure he was comfortable with a cushion even when they had no furniture.

"I am sorry about the lack of seating," she said. "We do not want to move too much in before the thirty-first, in case something 'appens," she added, with dark significance.

"What might happen?" he asked, looking around as though he expected a Death Eater to jump out from behind the door and attack.

"When we go to pick up 'Arry, Bill and I will fly 'ere and our 'ouse will become a decoy," she said. "If we are attacked 'ere, I will not mind if they blow up the awful furnishings that we 'ave. I am sure that this carpet could not look any worse for a Death Eater splayed across it!" She grinned, and Ron found himself smiling back.

"So basically, you're hoping You-Know-Who will turn interior decorator and give your house a makeover" he said.

"Or at least not ruin the chairs _Tante Isabelle_ 'as gifted us, should anything go wrong. They are beautiful—very old wood, but painted white. Bill says 'e will do our table to match, and they will look just darling in the kitchen!" she added, sounding much more like the Fleur he knew.

"I'm sure," he said, trying to sound interested. He didn't want to talk paint colours or wood types with her, but if it kept her off the topic of their mission…

As though she were psychic, Fleur immediately changed the subject. "But, enough. You do not want to talk about chairs. Your mission, your quest, you must—"

"Fleur I—I can't talk about it," Ron said, deciding to head her off before she could really get going. "There is a mission we have to complete, something Dumbledore left for Harry, but we're going too, me and Hermione. But I _can't_ talk about it—not to you, or Bill, or Dad, or_anyone_."

"I understand," Fleur said. "I know you cannot tell me. I am not asking for details. I just 'ave two zhings to say to you."

Ron sipped his tea and looked at her. She had kicked off her shoes and was picking at a toenail, and it suddenly struck him that, though she was getting married in less than a fortnight, Fleur wasn't that much older than him, and she had made a new life for herself in a foreign country that was at war with itself. She maybe knew one or two things.

"Zhe first is a message from your brother. Bill says, always know what you are getting yourself into. He doesn't mean do not go!" she added, as Ron started to protest. "He means, always be very aware of your surroundings. Take care when entering new places, for traps and tricks and such. There are some books 'e will lend you, from when he was training as a curse breaker. 'E says to not tell your mother."

Ron swallowed. "Okay. I…I'll do that. And I'll speak to him about the books. I think they'd be very useful."

Fleur nodded. "Zhe second ees from both of us, of course, but I 'ave a special request. We do not want to know where you are going, because we understand that you cannot tell us. But know this: if you ever 'ave need of a place to stay, do not 'esitate to come to us. Do not worry about putting us in danger: we are in danger already. Just come."

"Thank you," Ron said. "Really, thank you. But we really couldn't put you in any more danger when—"

"The second part," Fleur continued loudly, "ees about Hermione." Ron immediately quietened. "I know she ees proud, and I know that she thinks I am stupid and blonde and too feminine to know anything of use."

"She doesn't think that!" Ron protested half-heartedly. Truth be told, he reckoned that Hermione and Fleur might have been friends had he not made it clear, when he had been younger and stupider, that Fleur was the more desirable witch because she was, objectively, much prettier. But he wasn't ready to tell Hermione that now, he thought she was more beautiful than Fleur could ever be, and so her wariness of Fleur would not yet go away.

Fleur gave him a look that clearly said she knew all that, though whether she was bothered by it, he couldn't tell. "Ron," she said seriously. "I know what 'appens to women in war. You do, too. I can 'elp Hermione, with some magic I know—not the sort they teach in school. It might 'elp, if she ees ever in that sort of danger. Tell 'er to come to me, before you go, and I will teach 'er what I know. And if any of you are in _any_ danger, or even if you think you might be, you come to us, you understand?"

"You—you don't mind? You'd be in so much danger, and—"

"As if we are not in danger already!" Fleur said, rolling her eyes. "We would 'ardly be in more should the three of you come to us. Besides, I know 'ow much Bill loves you; 'e would die for you or any of your family, and so would I."

"But, Harry and Hermione—"

"I remember 'Arry from the Tournament: 'e is a _good_ person, and 'e saved my sister. And Hermione, I know that you are in love with her, and—"

"I'm not in love with her!" Ron said, but he couldn't kid even himself that the sentence had been halfway convincing. Fleur just smiled—not a sweet smile, but the smile of an older sibling revelling in the knowledge that they were right and you were wrong, and he huffed. "I'm _not_!" he added petulantly, mostly because he didn't need another older sibling who would pull that sort of thing with him.

Fleur's expression turned more serious. "You should tell 'er. This war, it will only get worse. Look what 'appened to Bill—that could be you, or Hermione. Or worse! I do not wish to be a…'ow would you say…a pessimist, but you must think: what are the chances of something 'appening to either of you, and you not 'aving told 'er 'ow you feel?"

"I see what you are saying," Ron said. "But I don't want to jump into things just because there's a war on, either. I want her to know that I love her whether we're going to die tomorrow or live for another thousand years, y'know?"

"I know," Fleur said. "I understand. I will not say anything to 'er. But you must promise me you will send 'er to me so I can teach what I know about the ways women can protect themselves. You should talk to Ginny, too. She respects you; she will listen."

Ron nodded. "Thank you," he said.

Fleur shrugged. "We who are older must do our best to save those who are younger from those who would do them 'arm."

"No—not just that," Ron said. "I mean, thank you for everything."

"You are welcome, _mon frère_."

"Fleur?"

"Yes?"

"How do you know I lov—like Hermione? Do you think she knows?"

Fleur looked at the seventeen year old man sat on her floor, and saw the scared, hopeful little boy inside and did what any sister would. "I am sure she does not," she said, lying through her teeth. "And I know because you can talk to me now, no? And look at me. Before, my…my powers would prevent that. Now they do not, because you 'ave found your own love."

"Huh," said Ron, and Fleur worked hard to keep her expression neutral. "And do you think that maybe—only maybe, and it doesn't really matter either way, you know, I'm not that bothered, but—do you think that she might like me back?"

"Ron," said Fleur. "Your mother—please do not take this in the wrong way—but, you remember 'ow your mother was with me, before Bill was 'urt?" Ron nodded. "We 'ave…'ow to say…put our differences on the one side, now, but you remember 'ow she was. I dare say she ees the same with all 'er son's girlfriends, at first. Per'aps not as extreme, but it ees there. And women—we know when other women are treating us like that. We can tell."

"What's your point?" Ron asked, as Fleur was looking at him like there was something he should understand.

She sighed. "I am not saying your mother 'as treated Hermione like she once treated me. But, Hermione stays at your 'ouse in the summer for the past three years now, no?"

"Four," Ron coughed. "It is, uh, four. She stayed with us the first year when it was the World Cup."

Fleur smiled. "Zhen she must love you very, very much."


	13. Chapter 13

It was late on a Saturday morning, and they were still wrapped up together under the duvet, George telling her about the new product he hoped to launch in time for Christmas. "So I'm thinking, start with lipsticks, because they're easiest to produce. But then move onto those eye thingies, if it's successful. You know, the ones you paint on your eyeballs."

"Eyelids?"

"Yes, that one."

"Eyeshadow, that's the word you're looking for," said Angelina. "But I don't think it'll work. That or the lipsticks."

George's face fell slightly, but he didn't look offended. "Why not?"

"Colour-change make-up? No woman wants that," she said. "If you put brown eyeshadow on before breakfast, you don't want it to be green by lunchtime. If you put pink lipstick on, you don't want it to turn blue or yellow or whatever. You don't even want it to turn a really flattering shade of red, because if you want to wear pink, you want to wear _pink_, you know?"

"Hmm," said George. She had a point. And the products would have to be more expensive than, say, a trick wand. They weren't going to be bought by people wanting to play a practical joke on a friend, they were aimed at women who liked wearing make-up. Who, he realised, would want to buy a specific colour, not a sort of pick-and-mix lipstick.

"I mean, it's not a _terrible_ idea," Angelina said, taking his silence for hurt feelings. "It's just…I don't think it would be a huge seller."

"No no, you're right," George said. "It wasn't one of my better ideas, I'll admit. You can be my token female staff member to advise me on all things cosmetic."

"Delighted, I'm sure," Angelina replied "Almost as much as Verity, your actual female staff member, will be. But seriously, I'm not all that girly; you're better off asking your sister-in-law if you want make-up advice. I'm sure if Fleur doesn't know it, it's not worth knowing"

"So what's your area of expertise, then?" George asked, rolling over in bed so he was facing her properly.

"Well, apart from being _the_ star second-reserve Chaser for the Falmouth Falcons, I am an excellent cook—my reheating skills are second to none," she said seriously, and George nodded.

"Just what I look for in a woman."

"School, of course, taught me loads, but primarily how to do all your homework the night before its due in a mad panic of procrastination but still get good marks. Well. Good-ish."

"An extremely commendable achievement!"

"And I have an unerring ability to run out of important things—milk, toothpaste, floo powder—_just_ before I've got myself organised to go to the shops and buy some more," she finished.

"Well, with that you're hired!" George said. "It's about time you started earning your keep around here."

"I thought all residents had to come up with a new product before they were allowed to sign the lease?" she asked.

"Nah, that was just to keep Ron out," George said, and she snorted. "For you, we make an exception. Because of your great beauty and general prowess in the bedroom."

"Re-opening as a brothel sounds like a sound business decision," she agreed.

"In this economic climate? Anything's a good idea," he said.

"Oh, come on!" Angelina said, raising an eyebrow. "Surely now's the time to cash in on all the parties and celebrations that are happening now life is wonderful and we have absolutely nothing to be sad about."

George snorted. "You think I need a range of party themed products?"

"Why not? It could work. More so than your daft lipstick idea would," Angelina said. "Expand your line of party foods. You've already got Canary Creams, but why not have biscuits that turn you into other birds? Decorations that shout things at you, that's right up your street. Banners that sing Happy Birthday, and so forth. Drive everyone nuts, that would. Ooh, and you could do tableware and cutlery that…does stuff. I don't know. Exploding forks, tap dancing plates… That'd be useful too—there's always some git who tries to hog the mini-sausage rolls at a party. Let them take two from a plate, then the plate dances off."

"You know, that sort of thing is not actually a bad idea," George mused. "Perhaps you will have more uses than just being Madame… What would you call it, though?"

"The line?" she asked. "Oh, I dunno. I'm no good at names. Weasley's Party Platters… Perfect Party Products…no, that sounds like Percy. Super Celebrations…yuck. Okay, well, I'll give you the idea for free, and you can do the name. I'm not at all creative."

"I've spotted," George said. "The name will need some work, but that's okay, I'm good at funny names. Fred was bloody useless at them, the only one he came up with that was any good was Skiving Snackboxes. I wanted to call them Illness Instigators."

"Well, I might not be any good at coming up with something new, but I will tell you if your own suggestions are just as bad," she said fairly.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said. "I think the party products could be a good line, though, once I've thought about a good name. We'd have the joke stuff for kiddies, but we'd also have fun things, like singing banners and whatnot, that anyone would buy if they were throwing a party. The thing is, though…"

He hesitated, and Angelina looked across at him. He was frowning slightly, seeming troubled, and so, after a moment where he didn't elaborate any further, she took the initiative and poked his shoulder. "Oi. What's the thing?"

"It's just…" he said, then sighed. "I'm good at funny names. And I'm really good at Charms—the Headless Hats were a creation of mine, and let me tell you, invisibility charms are _hard_. So something like a singing banner, I could do that no trouble. Find a way to record someone singing the happy birthday song, maybe branch out into having different name options, stick it on your banner, boom. Done. And we could have "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" or "Auld Lang Syne" and so on at seasonally appropriate times!"

"But?"

"But," he said, "I am crap at potions."

"I remember," Angelina said sourly, and he remembered the time in third year, when his Shrinking Solution had gone horribly wrong, exploded, and coated Angelina, on the desk next to him, with a foul-smelling goo that gave her bright green tentacles that left even Madam Pomfrey stumped for the best part of a day.

"I've become _marginally_ better," he said indignantly, before adding, "but not much. Fred always did the potions for the Snackboxes and Canary Creams and whatnot. I could just about manage to follow his instructions for them, but coming up with something new, like your idea for having different biscuits turn you into different birds? It's just not going to happen."

He shook his head ruefully, and with some finality, but Angelina looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. "Yes, and?" she pressed impatiently.

"And what? I can't do potions, at least not like Fred could," George repeated. "Okay, sure, give me unlimited time and resources and I might stumble across something good by accident. But I don't have either of those things; I've got a business to run!"

"Of course," Angelina said. "But what's stopping you paying someone else to do that?"

"What?"

"You're an employer, aren't you?" she asked. "Your employ Verity as a salesgirl. So advertise for a potioneer, and employ them as…I don't know, Junior Product Creator, or something. Easy."

"I can't do that," he said at once, shaking his head. "It's not the money," he added, anticipating her next question. "I could afford it. But…it's…this is mine and Fred's shop. Even now he's gone. Having someone else on board is weird."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Angelina said, rolling her eyes. "I didn't realise that all the help your friends and family have given you has been unwanted. Or that Verity, your employee, was actually just a figment of my imagination."

"Don't be a git," George replied. "Of course I'm very grateful for all your assistance and blah blah blah. But there's a difference between people helping out behind the counter—formally, or just for an afternoon—and people doing _our_ job. The inventing is what we did. Sure, I had better skills in some areas than Fred did, and he had better skills than I did in others. But even if it was a hat that I'd charmed or a sweet that he'd made, it was basically impossible to point at a single product and say 'oh that's a Fred, and this one's a George'. We thought together. And it's bad enough that I have to do that on my own, but to do it with someone else? It's not happening." He hit the mattress with his fist, _finished_, and it made a surprisingly loud sound. She didn't flinch.

There was a long pause. "That's not what I'm asking you to do," Angelina said, incredibly quietly. She reached over and placed a hand on top of his fist, uncurling his fingers one by one. "We're talking about potions, remember? That's all. All you need to do is give the person the recipe for a Puking Pastille and ask him to make you a batch. Or tell him, this potion turns someone who consumes it into a canary for half a minute. Can you do one where they turn into a magpie? That's all."

"Yes, but…"

"But nothing," Angelina said firmly. "You're still creating."

"But I should be able to do this myself!" George said. "Before, when Fred would—"

"You _didn't_ when it was you and Fred," she interrupted. "You had your skills, and he had his. You never were the same person then, so why should you have to be him now? You've always had your differences. Just because he died, doesn't mean you have to become some half-arsed, one-eared replica of him."

"I'm not—" he began. Then, "That isn't—". Followed by, "But it—". And then, "Stop being so bloody logical about this, woman."

Angelina laughed. "You know I'm always right," she said, teasing. "But it's true. You guys were twins, never the same person. I know it would be hard to work with someone who isn't him—or even maybe someone who isn't related to you! But if you want to carry on with the shop, you've got to be realistic. You can't do everything yourself, and if you're selling shoddy products…well, your sales are going to suffer. I'm not saying 'hire a potioneer or go bankrupt', but…"

"But you sort of are, yes," he said, nodding. "I get it. I don't want to have to do it, but I think I'm going to have to, at some point, if I want to start making new things." Angelina nodded back. "Hey, do you think you could—"

"No," she said, very firmly. "Sorry, no offence. But I don't want to work with you like that. I have my own job. And besides, I'm hopeless at making potions."

"I blame Severus Snape, the slimy sod, may-he-rest-in-peace," George said, and she snorted. "No one could learn under him. But, okay. I'll put an advert in the _Prophet_ on Monday."

"Don't rush," Angelina advised. "It doesn't all have to be done by next week, if you want to take your time."

"I'd rather get it underway, then I've got less time to think about it and convince myself out of it," he replied. "If I draft the ad today, I can post it off and get it in Monday's _Prophet_. I'll give it a week, see what happens, but if I get a good response I can maybe interview _next_ Monday, and then—"

"George?"

"Yeah?"

"Ssh," she said softly. He grinned, leaning in close.

"Are you gonna make me?"

"Me? Pfft, no," she smiled, turning her head away at the last second so he ended up kissing her ear. He laughed, tickling her, and she squirmed. "Stop it!"

He did then, withdrawing all contact until she caved, rolling over to his side of the bed and wrapping her arms around him. "You meant it, didn't you?" he asked, as she snuggled into him.

"Meant what?" she asked.

"About me and Fred being different," he pressed.

"You were different," she said simply. "Still are."

"I know," he said. "It sometimes doesn't feel like that, but…you're right. Again. Stop making me say that… But not many people would've noticed that. I think they saw us as one entity. I think I did, too, sometimes."

She nodded. "Guess that makes me pretty special, huh?" she said. It was a joke, or meant to be. But he smiled and kissed her.

"You are."

"Ugh, you're so cheesy," she said, screwing up her nose. "I hate it." She kissed him back.

"Clearly."

"…"

"Not that I'm not enjoying where this is going…"

"But?"

"But don't you have work to be doing? It's almost lunchtime. We should get going. You've got a business to run!"

"You know what? I think it can wait."


	14. Chapter 14

_From an anonymous tumblr-er, who requested post-Dean, pre-kiss Harry/Ginny. And for exam season. GOOD LUCK, if that's you!_

Ginny exhaled with a sigh so forceful the parchment she'd just placed on the table in front of her lifted up in the air, then gently floated to the ground. She, Harry and Hermione watched it, but none of them moved to pick it up. "Essay going well, then?" Hermione asked brightly.

Ginny huffed. "I am trying to think of a time in my life when I will need to care about the properties of Gurdyroot," she said. "And I am failing."

"On your Potions OWL exam?" suggested Hermione.

"Don't start with that again," warned Ginny. "I've got twenty three days until my first one and I know less than I did in first year, I think."

"All the more reason to get going on that essay," Hermione said encouragingly. She bent down and picked up the piece of parchment on the Common Room floor and scanned it quickly. "This looks really good to me so far! Just keep going, and I'm sure you'll be finished before dinner. It won't be that bad."

Ginny surveyed her for a long moment, then turned towards Harry, who was ostensibly wrestling with a labelled diagram for Professor Sprout but was in reality trying not to embarrass himself by accidentally labelling the flower 'the Ginevra'. "You know," she said, "she does this thing where she's really encouraging and nice to you when you're doing your homework, but _even though_ she did the exact same horrendous essay last year, she won't let you borrow it and copy her work? How mean is that?!"

"Er—outrageous," Harry nodded. "Just terrible, really. So very, very mean. Absolutely."

Hermione huffed good-naturedly and turned back to the pile of books in front of her. "It's for your own good," she said primly. "You'll thank me for it one day."

"You're a terrible friend! I would without question let you copy all of _my_ homework, _and_ I bet it would be twelve million times better than yours!" Ginny said, throwing her hair back melodramatically. Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry chuckled. Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute...you weren't the only one doing this same essay last year, were you?" she said.

"Oh no," Hermione muttered. "You can't—"

"Harry," Ginny said, smiling at him like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "You want to give me your Potions Gurdyroot essay, don't you, my love?"

"Er," said Harry. "Um."

"You _do_," wheedled Ginny. She leaned towards him, placing one hand on his arm and fluttering her lashes dramatically. "You would do that for your old pal Ginny, wouldn't you? I'd make it worth your while!"

"I...I...I don't think Hermione would approve?" Harry said uncertainly. Hermione was concentrating on her own work, but they could both see her lips twitching upwards.

"Oh!" Ginny said dramatically. "Forget _her_. Run away with me, instead. And bring your Gurdyroot essay. It's just what a girl wants." She clutched at his shirt, placing her head on his chest. "Please, darling. Do it for me, please. And I will be your one and only only one," she said breathily. She flung her head back again, her long red hair draping itself over his arm. "What do you say, my sweet? Will you do that for me? Will you _please_?" Hermione was by now openly laughing at her antics, and Ginny continued to flutter her lashes, pouting at him.

And Harry found himself fully incapable of formulating any response whatsoever.

He knew he was supposed to play along, clutch her back to him and announce that he would summon the essay in question before hurtling off into the sunset with her in his arms in a trice, but words, at this moment in time, seemed beyond him. He was too distracted by the feel of her closeness, her hand on his arm, her soft full lips so near to his and the temptation was just _too_ great. It was a joke, a bit of fun, but he did not want it to end, and he was scared that whatever he said might make things too serious—he could not make this humorous, like she could, because it was too, too real.

And, if he did play along, who knew what else might start showing up in a real way? If her knee, pressing into his thigh, went much higher, he was going to have to start mentally rehearsing Chuddley Cannons stats to distract himself...

Clearly bored of him, Ginny flung herself away dramatically. "Fine!" she cried. "You clearly don't love me, or want to help me, or care about me in the slightest! I see how it is!"

"I do," he said dimly. "I mean—"

"It's too late! I'm through with you! We're over!" She set about gathering her things, then addressed Hermione in her normal voice. "I'm off to the library to get the books I'll need, but I'll see you in a bit for dinner. Save me a seat?"

"Of course," Hermione said. "See you later."

"Bye," she replied, then put on her dramatic voice again. "Tell Harry I am never ever ever going to speak to him ever again! We're through, it's over!" She flounced her way over to the portrait hole, and Harry tried to look anywhere and everywhere except her swinging hips.

"What?" he asked, trying for cool and collected, as she left, sensing Hermione looking at him smugly. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"You tell me," she said.

"There's nothing to tell!" he said, feeling himself going red.

"Mm_hmm_," said Hermione. She scratched out a word on her essay, then lifted a hand in greeting. "Oh, hello Ron! I didn't realise you'd been standing behind us the whole time!" she cried.

Harry jumped and whirled around, then realised his mistake: apart from a group of first years over in the far corner, the Common Room was empty. Hermione all but cackled, and he glared at her as she went back to her work. "She likes you, you know," Hermione said, a moment later. Harry grunted. "She really does. And it's over with Dean now, so you could—"

"Grab my Gurdyroot essay and take her into my arms, riding off into the sunset together," Harry said sourly. "What a good idea."

"Well, there is a Hogsmeade weekend coming up, so why don't—"

"Hello Ron, I didn't know McGonagall would be finished with you so soon," Harry said, waving. "That was quick, but don't worry—if there's anything you still don't understand that you missed when you were in the hospital, I'm sure Hermione will be _more_ than happy to tutor you!"

Hermione, who had mirrored him in jumping and whirling around when he greeted "Ron", glared at him. "That's not funny," she said.

Harry paused. "It really isn't, is it?" he said wanly. Hermione sighed, then patted his hand.

"We're a pair of idiots, aren't we?" He nodded, and they exchanged rueful glances. "Nevermind," she said. "Soon be dinnertime. I'm sure Ginny will be horribly upset if you steal the seat I'm saving for her so she has to sit on your lap..."


	15. Chapter 15

_A while back, I was sent a prompt that was along the lines of 'a Polyjuice potion goes wrong and Ron and Harry are stuck in each other's bodies'. I am an idiot who mistakenly deleted it, but this is my response to it, so if that was you, please let me know and I will give you proper credit!_

"You're late today, tough day in the office? I've got some dinner on the go, but I've not been back long myself so it won't be ready for—Harry? What's wrong? Where's Ron?" Hermione had been busy stirring something in a saucepan, humming along to the radio in her work robes and fluffy slippers when he'd walked through the door, but as soon as she'd turned away from the stove, she'd instantly become as alert as any Auror in the midst of a dangerous mission.

"Plenty, and right here," Harry sighed.

"What?" Hermione snapped. "This is no time to play games! Where's Ron? Is he injured? In St. Mungo's? What's going on?!"

"Sweetheart, please," Harry said, holding up his hands to stop the tirade of questions. Hermione frowned. Harry had called her many things over the years, but never that. "Ron's fine. I should know. I _am_ Ron."

"I…_what_?" Hermione asked.

"I'm Ron," Harry said, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table. "There's been a…small mishap, but I'm okay, and so's Harry."

Hermione's brow furrowed even further. The man sat in her kitchen table looked absolutely identical to her best friend, from the scar on his forehead down to the socks that she knew Ron would never wear, as they were branded with the Holyhead Harpies' logos, and not the Chudley Cannons'.

Just as she was about to say so, 'Harry' opened his mouth. "I am Ronald Bilius Weasley. The first thing you said to me was about me having dirt on my nose. You…uh…Merlin, I'm trying to think of things only you and I know… The first time you said you loved me was just before Australia…uh…the first time we went to a Cannons match, you fell asleep. You have a mole on your bum, on the left hand side. This morning you made me a cheese and ham sandwich and said you wanted to go to the garden centre this weekend to get some window boxes. When you destroyed the Horocrux, you said—"

"Okay," Hermione said, cutting him off. If she could avoid thinking about _that_, she would. "I believe you. You're Ron. What happened? Did you have an accident at George's shop? I'm sure I've read something that could help an accidental Body Reversal spell, if you just—"

"I wish!" Harry—Ron?—rubbed his face in frustration, then swore as the gesture broke the glasses he clearly wasn't used to wearing.

"Give them here," Hermione said, getting her wand out. "And tell me what happened."

He passed them over. "Polyjuice," he said, "gone wrong. The Department of Mysteries have been working with some experienced potioneers on extending the life of Polyjuice potion so that you don't have to drink some every hour on the hour. Aurors often use it for disguising themselves, for obvious reasons, but it's a bit suspicious if you have to keep drinking from some mysterious bottle every hour, right?"

"I suppose that's why Crouch was so successful when he 'was' Mad-Eye Moody," Hermione nodded. "Everyone knew that the real Moody only ever drank from his own hipflask."

"Exactly," Ron said, "but most people don't work like that. So, anyway, they've come up with this new version of it that's supposed to last for four hours at a time, before you have to refresh. And of course, the Auror Office are dead excited about this, and they wanted me and Harry to try it today, because we've had loads of experience with Polyjuice what with—uh—one thing and another. So I became him, and he became me."

"Oh!" Hermione said, her expression clearing. "Well, that's not so bad. I thought there'd been some horrible accident or something. This is nothing—at least compared to what we've been through! So how long before you're back to normal?"

"That's the thing," Ron said. "It's supposed to last four hours. We took at eight-fifteen this morning."

Hermione's eyes shot towards the kitchen clock, which read almost half past seven. "Ah."

"Yes."

"Well…maybe it's a twelve hour thing?" she asked hopefully. "Eight-fifteen this evening, you'll be back to normal! That's only another three quarters of an hour. Not long at all!"

"Yeah…maybe."

* * *

"I think it's downright irresponsible!" Hermione raged. "Who knows what could've happened to you, taking it? You could've been _poisoned_, you could've been seriously ill, it's basically illegal to test potions on human beings when the long term effects haven't been—"

"And here I am, resembling some speccy git," Ron shrugged calmly.

"Even worse!" Hermione cried.

"Oh come on, now," Ron said soothingly. "Trust me, I've no desire to look like Harry for the rest of my life, but I'm sure it won't come to that. It's been twelve hours now, that's not _that_long—you wait, I'll wake up tomorrow morning right as rain. It could be worse—dare I remind you of Millicent Bulstrode's moggy?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "We were second year students illegally brewing potions in a disused toilet. _This_ is the Ministry of Magic! You'd think they'd…run some more tests, or something."

"They have," Ron said patiently. "It's been tested plenty, but there comes a point when you_have_ to test it on actual live people. You know that."

"Why you, though?" Hermione said mulishly. "Yes, yes, I _know_ what you said about you and Harry having the most experience with Polyjuice potion. But why is it _always_ you two? What if something more serious _had_ happened to you? This is bad enough, but if you ended up in the hospital or something…what would I do?!"

"Oh, love," Ron said, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair with his hand. The gesture wasn't as comforting as it usually was, though, because the intimacy felt strange coming from Harry's body. "I want something to happen to me about as much as you do, but whatever happens, I know you'd cope because you always do. You're pretty great like that. It's why I love you."

Even the words didn't affect her like they normally would; they just sounded too strange in Harry's voice.

"Well," Hermione said briskly, extracting herself from his grasp and trying to ignore the hurt look on his face. "Hopefully it won't come to that. Just you wait, you'll be back to normal in no time!" It sounded like the sort of thing Professor McGonagall would say.

But nine, then half past, then ten all passed and the person sitting on the sofa still looked entirely like Harry James Potter. At eleven, she finally put away the case notes she'd been busying herself with and looked at him with a sigh.

"At least I don't have to worry about you running off with my best man," Ron said ruefully, noting his fiancée's clear distaste for his appearance. Hermione laughed, but inwardly felt a jolt of panic: they were due to get married in a couple of months, _what if he wasn't back to normal by then_?

No, she couldn't think like this. She'd just get worked up for no reason. Everything would be okay…

"Shall we go to bed then?" she asked. "I bet a good night's sleep will sort you out." It was clear neither of them believed this, but it was better than saying nothing. Maybe.

Getting ready for bed posed its problems: Hermione found herself suddenly shy about undressing in front of him. Even though she knew it was Ron, and not Harry, she couldn't do it, disappearing into the bathroom until she was securely wrapped inside underwear, proper pyjamas and a dressing gown. When Ron discovered that his own pyjamas were slightly too long in the leg for Harry's body and said he would sleep in just his boxers, it made her feel even more uncomfortable.

They were oddly polite, ensuring that they both had enough of the duvet, asking if it was okay to turn off the lights, and being oh-so-careful not to touch each other beyond the odd brush of the hand, but despite that and her very busy day, Hermione found herself lying there, completely unable to sleep.

"This is really, _really_ weird," Ron said with feeling, his voice cutting through the darkness after a few moments.

"You're telling me," Hermione replied. "But—look, apart from the super long-lasting effects of the potion, you've had nothing else weird happen? It didn't…I don't know, taste any different, or make you feel ill at all?"

"Nope," said Ron. "Why?"

"Well, that probably means there's nothing wrong with it, but that they probably upped the dosage too much by mistake," Hermione said. "_So_, it actually should be okay, you know? Given enough time, this _will_ wear off, I am absolutely positive. We just need to wait it out, but it's been about eighteen hours. I'm sure it won't last much longer."

"I really, _really_ hope not," Ron said with feeling.

"Me, too," said Hermione, and reached out to squeeze his hand, just once. It was dark in the bedroom, and she could feel, more than see, him smile in response to this.

Neither of them said anything after this, both drifting into sleep by degrees, and the next morning, Hermione awoke, thinking the whole thing had been a very bizarre dream. It was funny what the subconscious could come up with. She rolled over, and saw Ron—or, not. Though he was lying with his back to her, she could see the lack of freckles covering his skin, no scars from the brains he had touched all those years ago covering the arm lying on top of the duvet, and perhaps the biggest giveaway of all: the shock of messy black hair on top of the pillow, sticking out in all directions. Ginny hadn't been lying, then, when she had told her about Harry's bedhead.

A weight settled in her stomach. It wasn't, perhaps the biggest problem in the world—Ron wasn't injured, or ill, he remained totally himself in his mind, and was her fiancé in every respect other than his appearance. Hermione had liked to think she was a firm believer in that age old saying about not judging a book by its cover. But seeing Ron looking so much like their best friend—well, she just could _not_ be attracted to him. She loved Harry as much as she loved Ron, but the love was different, and there was nothing sexual about it in the slightest. She couldn't even bring herself to kiss Harry—or Ron as Harry—beyond a sisterly peck on the cheek. Even being in the same room as Ron-Harry, when he undressed, felt wrong.

She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was half-past six, and she had to be at work in two hours, doing last minute preparation for her nine o'clock meeting. She may as well get up—unlike most mornings before work, she had nothing keeping her in bed…

She sat up, and as she did so, Ron stirred. He rolled over, so he was facing her, and opened his eyes—and Hermione shrieked.

He gave a yelp and sat bolt upright, groping around for his wand. "Wassgoinon?" he asked, voice still groggy with sleep, but alert.

"Nothing—I—oh, Ron, it's _good_ news!" she cried joyfully, and used her own wand to summon the hand mirror off her dresser. She held it out to him, and he looked at his own face.

"Thank _Merlin_," he breathed, taking in his eyes and nose—which were _his_ eyes and nose. He brushed Harry's hair off his forehead. "Look, no scar, either!"

"How do you feel?" Hermione asked.

"Perfectly fine, actually," he said. "And, to be honest, more than a bit relieved. Imagine if I'd been stuck looking like that ugly sod all my life!"

He shook his head ruefully, and more out of relief than anything, Hermione burst into giggles. She still didn't feel attracted to him in the slightest, but it didn't matter. Sooner or later, and hopefully sooner, he would be back—_her_ Ron. "I couldn't stand that," she said. "I mean, I love Harry. But—ugh!" She shuddered.

"I'll be sure to tell him that that was your reaction to his body," Ron said. "Genuine horror. Revulsion, even!"

"Oh, shut up," Hermione said, but she tied her dressing gown around her and left the bedroom feeling ten times lighter than when she'd woken up.

* * *

"I'm home! Mmm, that smells amazing!" she called out, inhaling the aroma of her favourite meal as she entered the hallway of their flat. She knew Ron was home early—he'd sent her a memo that afternoon that he was clocking off—but he hadn't mentioned the progress on the Polyjuice front. She assumed that the fact that he was cooking, however, was a good sign. Maybe he was starting to get his own legendary appetite back?

"Glad to hear it!" his voice—_his_ voice! She gave an inward cheer, and hurried to remove her cloak—called from the kitchen, followed a moment later by the unmistakeable sound of a cork being popped.

"Ooh, what're we celebrating?" she asked, hanging her cloak on its peg and banishing her belongings to the small workstation in the living room.

"This!" he replied, just as she entered the room.

Hermione took one look at him, and, with a shriek of joy, leapt straight into his arms. He barely had time to put the bottle down. "I promise," he said, several moments later when they paused for breath, "that every last inch of me is myself."

"I shall look forward to investigating, later," she said primly, and was rewarded with his wonderful smirk. "Now, where's that wine gone? After the last twenty-four hours, I could do with a drink."

"Me too," he said fervently, and reached behind him to pour two glasses, one of which he handed to her.

"Cheers!" she said, as they clinked them together. "So, how did it happen?"

"Well, when I got to work, Harry was sort of in the same position as me, changing back slowly. We continued changing back body part by body part for the next few hours—which wasn't huge amounts of fun, but by about two, we were both fully ourselves. Robards sent us both home early, after he made us get a medical, but it came back all clear. We were just told to rest, and contact St Mungo's immediately if there were any after-effects, but at the moment, I'm feeling _great_!"

"I'm glad to hear it," Hermione said. "And I can see you've been putting the time to good use," she added, indicating the delicious aromas coming from the stove, and the candlelit table, with their best tablecloth on the top.

"Pudding's top secret," he replied. "I got the recipe from Fleur, so you're in for a treat!"

"Dessert? I can't wait," Hermione said, winking at him, and she was rewarded with her favourite smirk again. He kissed the top of her head, then turned back to the saucepans. Hermione took a seat at the table, sipping her wine, then asked, rather more soberly, "Is Harry okay? It wasn't a great experience for us, and, much as _I _love your body, it can't have been wonderful for him, being inside it…" Ron gave a sudden hoot of laughter, and turned back towards her, the gleeful expression on his face one she more often associated with George.

"Well now," he began, making what was clearly a supreme effort to keep his laughter under control. After a few moments, he sobered enough to say, faux-seriously, "You may have heard that Harry is dating a certain young woman by the name of Ginny Weasley?"

"Yes, I believe we've met once or twice," Hermione nodded, mimicking his tone.

"Well, it's—" Ron broke off, laughing again, and Hermione frowned in confusion. "You know how Ginny's basically had no time off this past month?"

"Yes," Hermione said, nodding again. The Holyhead Harpies were playing in the Inter-European League, and the games were tough. Ginny was either playing in matches or training for them, with no time for anything else. "She sent that postcard from Barcelona the other weekend, do you remember?" It had featured the magical part of the city on the front, and, scrawled on the back, "Looks like this is all of the city I'll get to see! We should make the boys take us on holiday here sometime, to make up for it!"

"They won their game on Monday," Ron said, "so, apparently…" He broke off, laughing again. "So Gywnog gave them the one night off. Just the one, mind. To celebrate."

Comprehension began to dawn, and Hermione raised one hand to her mouth, trying to cover her smile.

"And, you know how me and Harry were away a few weeks ago, with the case up in Orkney?" Ron said, grinning. Hermione's other hand joined the first. "So the last time they saw each other was getting on for two months ago, almost. So, Gwynog gives them the night off, and Ginny rushes to the Spanish Ministry, ignoring everyone who wanted her to hit the town with them, and spends her Man of the Match bonus on this ludicrously expensive return Portkey to London…"

"Oh," said Hermione, voice muffled by her hands, "Oh _no_." Her shoulders began to shake with suppressed laughter.

"Doesn't tell Harry she's back, goes straight to Grimmauld Place to get ready for him, and then he turns up late and she's all 'hey Ron, bugger off yeah? I'm waiting for Harry to come back'…"

"Oh _no_!" Hermione said, properly laughing now. "Poor, poor Ginny!"

"Poor Harry!" Ron replied. "She made him sleep in the spare bedroom. She couldn't bring herself to share a bed with him. And she had to leave super early in the morning, her Portkey was at five thirty, so he hadn't started to change back by then."

"At least he's all fixed, now, though," Hermione said.

"Yes," agreed Ron. "But Ginny's still abroad until the end of the month. And then, when she gets home, she's back to training all day at Holyhead, and Harry's on nights for three weeks!"

"It just goes to show," Hermione said, still giggling, "that there's always someone worse off than yourself."

"I agree," Ron nodded, then bent down to kiss the top of her head. "And, right now, I don't think I could name a single person in the world _better_ off than me."

_A/N: I am normally rubbish at titles, but this one was called 'Imperfect Harmony' as I am clearly a super shady individual..._


	16. Chapter 16

_'Harry's first night as a dad, with his parents talking to him in Dreamland' - requested by . I wrote this about a year ago, but catching up with my cross-posting means I now get to rec you her MC 'Vows'. Link in my favourites :)_

* * *

The baby was asleep, lying in the cradle with his arms above his head, tiny hands curled into fists. Ginny was asleep, lying sprawled on her side, wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and one of his old t shirts that covered her still-distended stomach. Her hair was spread out across the pillow, the exact same shade as the few wisps that covered the baby's head and her chest rose and fell like a metronome.

Even the house seemed to sleep, in this darkest midwinter: the only light was from the orbs he had conjured to float around the crib, and the snow outside muffled all sounds until the three of them might have been the only people in the world. He couldn't remember ever feeling so at peace, and yet, despite it all, Harry could not sleep.

This child, hours old, was _his_. He was fully responsible for everything, now, and somehow more connected to the world. James Sirius, with his bright blue eyes and his tiny fingernails and his little snub nose that was entirely Ginny and his chin that was like looking in a mirror, but minimised, was _his_. He had loved—and still did—Teddy Lupin like his own child; he had five nieces from the family he'd married into and had seen them all when they were all hours—sometimes moments—old. And though he would have died for all of them, none of them had elicited such a primal response from him.

This baby, this James, this child of his and his beautiful, clever, perfect wife's, was his closest living relative; they shared half of their genetics, and before James, he had never been able see parts of himself literally reflected in someone still breathing. He was his connection to the future, but also his tether to the past.

Ginny had gone into labour shortly after arriving at her parents' house for a New Year's Eve party. There had been no fuss or complications, she had merely informed him that they would have to curtail their evening and go straight to St. Mungo's. He had had to sit down on the hard quarry tiles of the kitchen and take deep breaths, whilst she had rolled her eyes and muttered about inadequate men. He'd been in such a state that her mother and Hermione had had to assist her in the Floo, whilst Ron apparated back to their house to pick up her (pre-packed, of course) hospital bag and Arthur had been left to look after him.

Charlie and George had ribbed him about being hopeless at babies and labour and_women's things_ and he'd let them laugh along thinking it was all this talk of wombs and dilation and contractions that was upsetting him, and not the fact that there was a faint possibility his first baby might share a birthday with Tom Riddle that was really upsetting him. For when Ginny had come downstairs from the bathroom, looking slightly pale and saying somewhat shakily "I think my waters have broken"; when the rest of the Weasleys and their friends had dashed around her in various states of panic or reassurance, it was this thought that he couldn't shake.

And, worse, if the baby _did_ share Riddle's birthday, could he still love it?

(In the end, it hadn't mattered: the baby had been born at three minutes to ten in the morning on New Year's Day. But if James had shared Riddle's birthday, he could still have loved him. No matter what he did or didn't do with his life, Harry knew for certain that he could never _ever_ stop loving him.)

He himself nearly hadn't made it to the New Year. At one minute to midnight, a particularly painful contraction had hit, and he'd offered Ginny his hand to hold, quipping, "Hey, next year, this pain will be all over!" and if her wand had been in reach, he was sure she would have succeeded where Voldemort and all his Death Eaters had not. He would have forgiven her though; he'd have forgiven her everything after what she'd done. It had been the bravest, toughest, scariest and most elating thing he'd ever witnessed and she had been fantastic.

When James had slid out, it had been noisy and smelly and dirty and, even though it was a textbook perfect birth, they had still had three midwitches and Ginny's mother in the room with them. But when she clutched his hand, sobbing with relief and joy and pain, and placed it half on her breast, half on the baby's head as he screamed his tiny little lungs out, they may as well have been the only three people in the room—in the _world_.

And then, moments that felt like eons later, when they took the baby away to be checked over and the Healers came in to do whatever it was that they had to do to Ginny, whilst she had a private moment with her mother, and he was left adrift in the middle of the hospital room, he wondered: had his father felt like this, when he had been born?

He didn't actually know anything about his birth—had he been born in St. Mungo's, too? Or had that been too dangerous for his parents to risk, and had he been born at home? What home would that have been—the Godric's Hollow Cottage, or somewhere else? Had they perhaps gone to a muggle hospital? His mother had been muggleborn after all; she'd have known how to act in that world. He'd never thought about this before, but finding the answers suddenly seemed very important.

Now, watching over the baby in their house—their _home_—he wondered what his parents had done on his first night at home. Had his father kept watch whilst his mother slept? Had they both stood over the crib, like he and Ginny had earlier, and felt their knees tremble with unadulterated fear because this tiny infant wholly and unreservedly trusted the two of them alone to take care of him? It was cold out now, so cold, as only the bleakest midwinter could be; Ginny had conjured heated blankets that would keep James as warm and toasty as he needed to be. When he had been born, at the end of July, had it been baking hot? Had they reversed Ginny's spell, created a kind of cooling blanket for him?

And how had they done it all when they had been alone?

At the hospital, Ginny's entire extended family had all visited them; though they'd been home mere hours, Ron and Hermione had come to visit, and so had Andromeda Tonks, bringing Teddy. Ginny's mother and father had helped them to move in—Molly had had to have been fairly dragged away by her husband as Ginny laughingly insisted they would survive the night without her constant hovering. James had barely arrived in the world before their friends started sending cards of congratulations, baring promises to visit as soon as possible.

His parents, in hiding, had had none of that.

They would have had Sirius and Remus and Peter, of course, but three inexperienced twenty year olds would not have been the same. Had his mother's mother still been alive at that point? Could she have offered her daughter the same support Molly offered Ginny? Even if he could bring himself to ask his Aunt those questions, he doubted she would have cared enough about Lily to know the answers.

His heart had hardened even more towards the Dursleys in the aftermath of James's birth. Even before Ginny had been pregnant, he'd loved Teddy and his in-laws children, but now, he would do anything to help any helpless infant, even one belonging to Draco Malfoy. Someone that small, that innocent and powerless, that completely free from any prejudice…how could you treat it like the Dursleys had treated him?

How could Peter, who had maybe been one of the first people to see him, who had maybe bought him a toy or a blanket or a pair of booties that he had loved, how _could_ he have betrayed not just his friends, but a family containing a _baby_?

But for all those mysteries, Harry now understood how Sirius and Remus had managed to show him so much love. They, too, had known him since he was a baby, had seen him totally and utterly helpless and loved him from the first. They had stepped up, even though it had taken many years and misunderstandings, and tried their damndest to be the father-figure he so craved. But despite that, despite their tales of his Dad and despite all the years as a child wishing he had a _real _family, Harry had never missed his own father as much as he did that night.

He was thinking of his father and his mother as he slipped down in the armchair, eyes falling shut as Ginny and the baby slept on. In this half dreamlike state, he saw them as he had in the Mirror of Erised all those years ago, smiling and crying at once, looking at him sat there holding James. They were both holding hands, but their spare hands were both reached out towards him as he stood there with his son, and he could see clearly now in the baby the bits of Potters and Evanses past that had been overwhelmed by the mass of Weasleys earlier.

And then, stretched out behind his parents, just as they had been when he was eleven, were acres and acres of Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles and cousins, all smiling and laughing and straining their necks to catch a glimpse of sweet baby James, lying in Harry's arms as he sat in the armchair. And then Sirius and Remus were there too, young and whole again, grinning and laughing along with everyone else. Remus touched his fingers to his forehead in salute, and gave Harry a nod that seemed to say _I know_, and Sirius gave an exaggerated thumbs up as he gazed in wonder on the baby, which made Harry laugh.

In the dream, his laughter jolted the baby, and he looked down on him. Little James didn't cry, though, and instead lay there peacefully, and so Harry looked back up. When he did so, everyone had vanished—everyone except his parents. And then Lily, his mother, stepped forward, picking up a gold coloured blanket that Molly had knitted, held it close to her face as she inhaled deeply and then, more tenderly than he had ever imagined, tucked it around him as he sat there with James. Then his father moved forward to, and the two of them stood on either side of the armchair, neither saying a word but both more warm and reassuring than anything he had encountered before.

* * *

He jerked awake.

"Oh dear, Jamsie, I think we woke Daddy up!"

Harry blinked. "Whasgoinon?" he muttered, squinting at the clock on the wall.

"Someone was a bit hungry, so he woke me up," Ginny said. She was sat up on the bed now, propped up on several pillows, and James was in her arms, sucking contentedly. "You must've fallen asleep on watch-duty. Honestly, is this the calibre of men in the Auror Department at the moment?"

She kept her voice low and soft, and he smiled. "It's why we leave the women in charge," he replied.

"A wise choice," she agreed. "Still, at least you had the sense to wrap up warm—it's so cold out there tonight."

"Huh?" Harry asked, then glanced downwards. He was encased in the golden blanket Molly had knitted—the blanket that had been on the other side of the room when he'd sat down. He definitely didn't remember picking it up before, and his dream had been just that—a dream. Perhaps he had summoned it by magic, in his sleepy state not realising.

"Come on, come and join us," Ginny said, patting the other side of the bed invitingly. He got up to do just that, passing the dresser on the way there that held a photograph of his parents. He could have sworn that his mother winked at him.

It could just have been a trick of the light—or indeed, something she did all the time anyway: it was a magical picture, after all. But tonight was a night for believing in miracles, and so he climbed onto the bed, reached around and tucked the blanket around the three of them. And then he imagined his parents standing on either side of the bed, as they had before. Keeping watch over the two people he loved most, and the ones _they_ loved most.


	17. Chapter 17

Fleur's used to being hated by women. She's beautiful, men lust after her. She's clever, rich, powerful, ambitious. Women and girls have loathed her since she hit puberty. Not all, it's true, but a substantial proportion.

She's used to the resentment and dislike and hatred. She's not used to wanting to change it.

It would be a lie to say she isn't bothered by it, because she is—sometimes more, sometimes less. She gets hurt, she feels sad, or maybe angry, but she's never before wanted to make the women who hate her love her.

Or even like her.

Bill hugs her and kisses her and tells her that it's alright, that he loves her and that's all that matters, that his Mum and sister'll come round eventually, that they're always like this to his girlfriends, it's not personal…and all that's probably true. And she loves Bill—_God_, she loves him—and she's not going to leave him over this, no matter how much it upsets her.

She tries talking about herself, what she can do, about France, about her interests so his mother and sister won't think she's a vacant airhead, but that backfires: they think that she's snobby, and that she thinks she's too good for them. She offers to do Ginny's hair and make up for her, but she shoots her down—_she_ doesn't need to paint her face to make boys interested, she tells her.

Neither do I, you silly girl, Fleur wants to say. I paint my face because it's _fun_.

She offers to play Quidditch with her instead, but Ginny needs to practise against some proper competition if she's going to make the team this year. And, yes, she _is_ good—better than Fleur, definitely—but Fleur could hold her own against her, at least.

Bill says she should offer to help his mother with cooking and housework. That's what Molly Weasley prides herself on, and if Fleur can manage to do it to her satisfaction, she'll be _in_. And so she offers, but she's turned down at first relatively politely, but then more and more coldly. "No, thank you," Molly says. "I don't think that's quite what we're looking for. We want proper, English food I think."

_You can take your foreign ways away from my son. You're not good enough for him._

And when she takes the initiative and does things around the house like make the beds, Molly follows her around, remaking them, afterwards. "That's not _quite_ how I do it, dear." (Her one act of vindictiveness is to ruin the turned down sheets on Bill's bed with him one afternoon, making him beg for mercy in a snatched few minutes to themselves when everyone else is out. She primly remakes the bed afterwards, and waits for Molly to say something. She doesn't.)

She only cries once, on Christmas Eve, because she's lonely and homesick and cold and she doesn't know what else she can do. Bill holds her and strokes her hair in the apple orchard at The Burrow—because she's _not_ going to let them know how much she's hurting—and she loves loves loves him but even he can't comfort her tonight. In desperation, he says that he'll take her back to their flat tonight, that they'll pack a bag and he'll pay the extortionate price of a last minute Portkey and spend Christmas Day with her family but her pride won't let her.

That, and the fact that she knows Bill wants to be here with them whilst he still can—with Voldemort and the war coming, the unspoken threat of things not being the same next Christmas is ever present. And despite it all, she still wants them to like her. She just doesn't know how that will ever be possible.

On Christmas Day, when Percy turns up, she has to stop herself from running after him when he leaves, covered in parsnip. Bill had told her what had happened long ago, and she'd been horrified—towards Percy, whom she vaguely remembered, and not towards his family. She'd never been able to believe that someone could walk out on his family like that: Fleur would die before she leaves her sister. She nearly did.

But now, she understands. When the Weasleys decide that something about you is not right, they let you know that you're not welcome. Maybe Percy has made some mistakes, but they're certainly not blameless either. And he's not allowed to stick around long enough to start to apologise and correct those mistakes. She wants to run after him, tell him she understands, offer him a hug and a promise that he's not universally loathed.

Instead, she helps clear the used crockery off the table, carrying it into the kitchen. She asks if Molly needs any help with the washing up, but as usual, she's turned down. "Are you sure?" she presses. She's not sure why—perhaps because of the look of devastation on Molly's face after her third son's visit, and a need to reach out to try to help.

"Yes," the older woman says shortly. "You run along now—we'll get on just fine without you."

"We certainly will," Ginny mutters, once she's out of the room—but not out of earshot. She's heard a million of these comments before, but they're usually followed by some sort of reprimand from Molly, even if it's clearly half-hearted at best. Tonight, there's no reprimand, not even on Christmas, and that's when she gives up.

She still loves Bill, and she won't leave him or even postpone the wedding. But she just gives up on trying to make them like her. They will never do anything other than tolerate her at best, and the sooner she accepts that, the better. (She lies awake, crying, for most of the night, and tells Bill she's just homesick. She sort of hates him for not digging deeper and finding the _real_ explanation.)

* * *

Immediately after the attack, after Molly offers her the tiara and they both cry over Bill's broken body and reconcile in the Hogwarts' Hospital Wing (of all places), she doesn't dare hope that this means Molly—and especially Ginny—might come to love her eventually.

But then, the next morning, Molly comes along baring a basket of croissants for Fleur (which, really, she doesn't like, but she appreciates the gesture) and apple crumble for Bill. "It's his favourite," Molly says. "I will give you my secret recipe, so you can make it for him."

"Thank you," Fleur says, because she's meant to.

"Or…or maybe, maybe you could teach me how to cook some of the French dishes he likes?" Molly asks tentatively.

"I would love to," Fleur says, because it's the truth.

And then, two days later, Ginny comes down to sit with her and asks her to do her make up. "I'm sorry I was such a bitch," she says bluntly, as Fleur applies eyeliner with a slightly shaking hand to her face. She respects Ginny, so she doesn't try to shake it off with an 'oh, it was nothing' or 'I hardly noticed'. "I used to think that you'd used your Veela powers to ensnare him," she continues, nodding towards her sleeping brother.

You wouldn't be the first, Fleur thinks. And you won't be the last.

"But now I realise that I'm wrong," Ginny says. She opens her eyes and leans back, so she's looking at Fleur directly. "Bill must've performed some kind of enchantment on _you_, because that's the only way an idiot like my brother could end up with someone so beautiful and smart."

Fleur shrugs. "All boys are idiots," she says.

"Oh, I know _that_," Ginny replies, and somehow that strikes them both as hilarious, and despite everything, the end up laughing so hard Madam Pompfrey threatens to remove them. "Come on," Ginny says, standing up. "You should get some fresh air—you've not left this room for nearly three days. I'll show you round the grounds." She extends a hand, and Fleur takes it.

It's just a beginning. But there doesn't have to be an end.


	18. Chapter 18

_Written last summer in response to all the Pottermore World Cup articles :)_

"I mean, you've got to admit that that was an _excellent_ catch," Ron said, still raving about the match several hours later much to Hermione's amused exasperation. "The Brazilian team were better overall, I thought, but you've gotta admit, he's still got it, old Krum."

"'Old Krum'?" Hermione laughed. "He's only three years older than you!"

"More like four. He's a September birthday, and I'm March, so…" Ron shrugged. "But the point is: I was supporting Brazil and I think that, overall, they were the better team. But he is certainly the better Seeker."

"The best Seeker in the world," Hermione said, as they made their way through the crowds.

"Well, I wouldn't go _that_ far," Ron said, reaching out to steer Hugo, who had become rather entranced by a Curupira, in the right direction. "But he was better by miles than Silva. And I'd like to see him against the Arrow's Seeker, Meddleton. He's surely the best in the League by a country mile at the moment–not that I'll forgive him for that match against the Canons last month…"

"No, on paper, Viktor is technically the best Seeker in the world," Hermione corrected. "Maybe not in terms of overall skill or whatever, but he's the one who caught the snitch in the final of the World Cup. Therefore: he is, technically, the current best Seeker in the world. At least for another four years."

"Huh," said Ron, contemplating this. "Well, I suppose, yes. He is quite good."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Excuse me, who are you and what have you done with Ron Weasley?"

"What d'you mean?" he asked. "C'mon Rosie, keep up!" As their daughter jogged passed them, Hermione elaborated.

"You've hated Krum since our school days," she said. "You used to think I was planning to elope with him!"

"I never thought that–I feared it," Ron replied. "Besides, I like to think I've matured since I was 15…"

"'Like to think' would be right," Hermione said, elbowing him in the ribs. He clutched his hands to his chest in mock-hurt, and she laughed. "Well, no, it's true. You are a much better person than you were at 15–but you weren't bad then, either. I'm just surprised you are so supportive of Viktor is all, especially given the fact that you were supporting Brazil."

"Well, I don't really have any _real_ allegiance to Brazil," he shrugged. "You know me: England, the Canons or the Harpies as long as they're not playing my team. And as I say–his playing was much better than Silva's. I can appreciate a good match when I see one."

"I wish I could go back in time and tell 15 year old you you said that," Hermione laughed. "You'd never believe me."

"Oh, I would," Ron said. "On one condition." Hermione looked disbelievingly at him. "It's true!" he said. "All you'd have to do is show me Rita Skeeter's article from the other day."

"The one where she called you…what was it? Balding and mentally unstable?" Hermione asked.

"I'll have you know my hair is _thinning_, I'm not bald," replied Ron with dignity. "But yes, that one. And do you want to know why?"

"Oh, do tell…" Hermione said.

"Well, it turns out I didn't have to worry about you running off with him after all," he explained. "It was actually him and Harry having a torrid affair in that maze, that they've been carrying on on-and-off ever since."

"Well of _course_!" laughed Hermione. "I'm so glad Rita explained that one to you."

"Yes, so, as I say, I feel like I have perhaps treated him a little unfairly over the years when I didn't really need to," Ron said gravely. "I am no longer the Weasley he should be most afraid of."

"I would agree with that," Hermione nodded. "But on the other hand, I feel that your treatment of him will pale in comparison to anything an enraged Ginny might do. That jinx was nasty!"

"You're not wrong," Ron said. "But some good did come of it." Hermione raised her eyebrows. "I bet Harry that Ginny wouldn't be able to go the entire match without hexing Rita–d'you remember how she flew into the commentary box and hit that git Smith after what he was saying?" His wife nodded, smiling at the memory. "Well, Harry reckon's she's got much better at controlling her temper after having to put up with their terrors all the time, but I've known her longer. I knew she couldn't do it, 'cause I couldn't have either. So I won the bet."

"And what did you win?" his wife inquired.

"Whoever lost has to take the other's kids for a night," Ron said smugly.

Hermione smirked, eyeing Rose and Hugo who were currently taring around their tent in a fit of hyperactive post-match glee. "Do you think they're busy tonight?"


	19. Chapter 19

_From an anon on tumblr, who sent me this headcanon. Enjoy!_

* * *

_11 August 1998_

"Happy birthday!" Ginny blearily opened her eyes and grinned at Hermione, who was sat on the camp bed across the room from her.

"Thank you!" she replied. "Sleep well?" she added, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione's cheeks tinged pink, but she maintained a straight face. "About as well as you, I'd imagine."

"Well, I won't tell if you won't," Ginny shrugged, as she sat up. "Ready to go downstairs for breakfast and act like we didn't spend the night room-hopping so you could be with Ron and I could be with Harry?"

"Yes, but before we do…" Hermione said, summoning her overnight bag and pulling a neatly wrapped parcel out of it. "This is for you. It's not much, but…" Ginny tore off the paper to reveal a pretty little stationary set. "I thought you could use it when we go back to school, to write to Harry?"

Ginny reached over and hugged her. "Thank you, Hermione," she said. "And, you know, I'm really glad you're coming back to school with me. I wouldn't want to go alone."

"Me either," Hermione said, returning her friend's smile. "I'm secretly looking forward to having a best friend in my classes who isn't just going to use me for homework!"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Ginny laughed, as they made their way downstairs. "Once the Quidditch season starts, I'll have no time for anything but flying, I imagine, and I'll be all over you to get the answers to any and all homework we've been set!"

"Well, you can beg all you want, but I've grown pretty resistant to it over the years," Hermione said.

"_Well_," Ginny began, but she didn't get any further, for on opening the kitchen door, she found her entire family in the kitchen.

"_Surprise_!"

"Happy birthday, Ginny!" her mother said, bustling over and hugging her daughter. "Seventeen! Come and sit down," she said, steering her into a seat at the top of the table. "What would you like? Eggs? Bacon? Toast?"

"Bacon, please," Ginny said, sitting down and looking round at her family in some surprise. She hadn't expected them all to be there, but they were. Audrey was hovering nervously on the edge with Percy; Bill looked rather pale, and Fleur was stroking his back gently (too late, she remembered the previous night's full moon); George's smile was horrifically forced looking and there was, of course, one horrendously conspicuous absence, but she couldn't help feeling happy anyway. They'd all turned out for her birthday, because they were Weasleys, and that was what they did, even after everything they'd been through.

"I can't believe she hasn't noticed yet," Charlie said.

"Noticed what?" Ginny asked, turning to face him. "Oh!" Her eyes alighted on the very broomstick-shaped parcel on the kitchen table. "Is this for me?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "No, it's for the other Weasley who's coming of age today—ow!" Ginny heard Hermione kick her boyfriend, and smirked.

"Can I open it?" she asked.

"Please do," her Dad said. She tore the paper off, and gasped at what lay beneath. Nimbus 2000s were no longer the leading model of racing broom, having been outstripped by the 2001 even before the Firebolt had come onto the scene, but it was still a very expensive broom.

"I—I—" she stuttered, her gaze going from her Mum to her Dad and back again. Her mother's eyes were sparkling with tears, as was usual these days, but what was unusual was that, for the first time in a long time, they were tears of happiness. "_Thank you_!" she gasped.

"Well, you're only seventeen once," her father smiled. "And Merlin knows, we all need something to cheer us up at the moment, so—"

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she squealed, before turning to her brothers. "Quidditch match later. No arguments!" she added, staring pointedly at George. "It's my birthday, you have to do what I want!"

"Only if I can have that right now," he said, making a swipe for the bacon sandwich their mother had just placed in front of Ginny.

"Now, now," she chided, pulling it away from him and handing it back to Ginny. "Take your broom off the table now, dear. But I wouldn't put it too far away!" Ginny frowned in confusion. "Hogwarts letters arrived this morning! And there is a distinctly badge-shaped object in there! You'll be Quidditch Captain, of course."

Her Mum handed Ginny an envelope, and she exchanged grins with Harry, who seemed to have been placed as far away from her as possible, and with as many of her brothers between them as was possible, too. And that was without them knowing that he and Hermione had swapped places for most of last night—Hermione had slept up in Ron's attic bedroom, whilst Harry had been down in her room, and they'd both got up very early to switch before anyone else noticed. She hardly wanted to think about what her brothers would say if they knew. But at least she could drag Ron down, too, if it came to it...

"Oh, Hermione dear, there was one for you, too," her mother said, reaching over her head to hand Hermione a letter. "They never miss a trick at Hogwarts, do they? You're only here for the day, and they still know where to find you…"

"What's the exact address on the front of that?" Harry asked innocently. "Mine used to come addressed to 'Mr H. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs'…"

"It says Miss H. Granger, The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, thank you very much!" Hermione said primly. Ron gave a cough that sounded very much like 'watch it!', and Charlie stared between the four of them, a look of dawning comprehension on his face. Hermione seemed to notice this and leaned across him to loudly ask Percy to pass the butter, and Ginny decided it would be prudent to busy herself with her letter.

She barely even noticed the second badge fall out of the letter, nor did the small HG emblazoned on the front of it register with her. It wasn't until, skimming the accompanying letter, she read the words _very pleased to inform you of our decision to appoint you Head Girl for the school year 1998/99_ that the background noise of her family vanished, and her world became her slightly shaking hands holding onto the letter.

She looked down into her lap. The badge was most definitely there, alongside the one with a C on the front. _That_ one she'd been expecting—she'd been made Captain in lieu of Harry, at least whilst Quidditch was still allowed last year—but Head Girl? No. Everyone knew that that honour was going to go to Hermione. There had to be some mistake. She checked the letter again. It was definitely her name at the top…

"Ginny? Ginny!"

"Is everything alright dear?!"

She shook herself. Most of her family were staring at her, and she blinked back at them.

"Ginny?" She turned to Hermione and grabbed her letter from her. The other girl gave a squeak of surprise, and she heard her mother's reprimand, but all she could focus on was the name at the top of the letter. _Miss H. Granger_. The letter itself contained the usual spiel about when the train left, and a booklist.

There had been no mistake then.

She waved the letter in Hermione's direction, and the other girl took it back. "I'm," she said, her voice dry. She swallowed. "I got this in my letter." She held up the badge—the one she hadn't been expecting. "I'm Head Girl."

Her mother immediately burst into tears, and her father went to her, rubbing her back soothingly. "This is _good_ news, Mollywobbles. Ginny's Head Girl!" Her Mum made some incoherent noises, which Ginny roughly translated as her being pleased by the news.

"Well, I don't know about _that_. Head Girl doesn't sound too good to me!" George said, and Ginny's head shot up. He was smiling—a tiny smile, but a genuine one, for once. "And F-Fred and I were such good role models, too." Ginny made a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh.

Charlie reached over and squeezed her arm. "Congrats, sis," he whispered.

"I don't know about that—everyone knows _I _was the brother she most wanted to emulate," Bill called.

Fleur swatted him. "Congratulations, Ginny," she smiled.

"Yeah, well done Gin," Bill added.

"But," Ginny squeaked, finally able to find her voice again. "This is _yours_." She turned to Hermione, trying to pass her the badge.

Hermione shook her head, smiling. "No, it's _yours_," she said.

"The evidence is pretty irrefutable—it came in your envelope," Harry said.

"But everyone knows that Hermione's Head Girl material, not me!" Ginny protested.

"I'm not," Hermione said. "For starters, there's a Hogwarts rule dating back to 1327 that states that any student who comes back to repeat a year—for whatever reason—cannot be made Prefect or Head student, and I'm technically an eighth year student. It's in _Hogwarts: a History_," she added, as she gained several rather blank looks. "And I'm sure that your leadership and other skills you gained in the DA last year certainly did you no harm at all."

"But you were a prefect; I wasn't!" she said, feeling rather like she was clutching at straws. _Everyone_ knew that Hermione Granger was supposed to be Head Girl, not Ginny Weasley! Didn't they?

"No, but Prefects don't always make good Head students, and vice versa," Hermione said knowledgably.

"It's true," Percy agreed. "Head students need to be able to make commands and delegate; Prefects are the people they're delegating to. They tend to be much better at—well, the point is, congratulations, Ginny," he finished, Audrey having elbowed him in the side when he started getting too pompous.

"Congratulations," echoed Hermione, leaning over to hug her.

"Do you mind?" Ginny murmured, not letting her friend go.

"No. Honestly, no," Hermione said, looking her straight in the eyes. "You deserve this, and I was looking forward to a quiet year. Besides, I've missed a year of school…I need to concentrate on getting back into the swing of things, not being Head Girl. However much I would've wanted it at some point."

"Honestly and truthfully, you don't mind?" Ginny asked.

"Honestly and truthfully, I don't mind," Hermione smiled. "You are just the right amount of rebellious and stubborn and determined and intelligent to be an excellent Head Girl. I can't think of anyone better."

Ginny hugged her tighter. "And I can't think of anyone I'd rather have as my best friend," she replied.

"I think this calls for champagne!" she heard her Dad say.

"Are you sure?" her Mum asked, not sounding like she minded too much. "It is only breakfast time…"

"One bottle split between twelve of us isn't going to hurt, Mum," Bill said. "We were only going to have it later, anyway!"

"Would it be all twelve of us?" his mother asked, looking hopefully at Fleur's (perfectly flat) stomach.

"Eet would," Fleur confirmed, sharing exasperated looks with her husband, which made Ginny giggle. Her mother was making no effort to hide her desire for grandchildren.

"I'll help you, Dad," Charlie said, getting up.

"Me too," Percy added. "To hell with work, they can do without us for half an hour!"

"My God, Perce, I never thought I'd live to see the day!" George cried.

Arthur chuckled. "Champagne breakfast it is then! After all, it's not every day your daughter comes of age _and _is made Head Girl."

"Wait 'til you see my next trick," Ginny laughed.

Her father squeezed her shoulder as he passed. "I'm so proud of you," he said, and a warm glow filled her stomach.

"Can I have a look?" Ron asked, holding out his hand for the badge as the others bustled around them, sorting out glasses.

"Sure," Ginny said, handing it over.

Ron whistled. "Head Girl, Quidditch Captain _and _you were never a Prefect! Has that ever even happened before?"

"Yep," said Harry, who had come to sit next to them. "My Dad. Oh, thanks George." Ginny accepted the glass her brother handed to her, but her eyes were fixed on Harry.

"Your Dad?"

He nodded. "He wasn't a Prefect, Remus was. But he was Head Boy—and my Mum was Head Girl—and he was Quidditch Captain, too."

"There you go, Gin," Ron said innocently. "When Harry looks at you now, all he'll see is his Dad!"

"Shut up, or I'll put you in detention," Ginny replied.

"Ooh, scary!"

"Shut up, or _I'll_ put you in detention!" Hermione chimed in, winking at Ginny.

"I think I'd quite like that," Ron smirked.

Harry and Ginny made identical gagging noises, but before either could say anything, Ginny's Dad rapped his glass with a teaspoon.

"A toast," he announced. "To the one and only Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley."

He raised his glass and the others followed suit, echoing his words. And for Ginevra Molly Weasley herself, the hardest part was deciding who, in a room filled with people she loved, to look at first.

* * *

**Hello! I just wanted to stop by to say that this will probably be the last update to this fic for a little while. I am in no way abandoning it, but this is the last of the Weasley-centric drabbles I have posted on my tumblr but not here over the last couple of years (though I do want to crosspost a few more "shippy"/romantic things here, so there will be one or two more new-but-not things on my profile in the coming weeks) so now there _will_ still be updates, but they'll be on an as-and-when basis, when I write something new. And I am definitely still working on things, but as I'm now in the final term of my MA, writing has to take something of a backseat I'm afraid, so updates will be slower.**

**Having said _that_, Harry Potter Ship Weeks is starting up again, hooray! I'm not involved with it, but I do intend to write for it as much as possible. If you go to hpshipweeks dot tumblr dot com, you can see what ships are coming up and when. You might notice that it's Harry/Ginny ship week starting on Sunday. So if you check back to my profile on Sunday, you might see a new story popping up (and come back the next four days, too, to read the rest of it) :) Hope you're all having a lovely day - and as I've rambled this much, I might as well say a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who reviews, particularly those of you who come back every chapter 3**


	20. Chapter 20

**Trigger warning:** this fic contains (non-graphic) allusions to sexual violence and references to torture. A sort-of sequel to Chapter 12 of this fic :)

* * *

"You must drink this."

"I—I don't really want..."

Fleur's eyes narrowed, and Hermione shrank back against the pillows. "You _will_ drink it," she repeated, and decanted some of the still-smoking potion into a goblet.

"Where's Ron?" Hermione asked, realising that delaying the inevitable was more likely to be successful than outright refusal.

Fleur's expression softened. "Gone to bed," she said. "Bill nearly 'ad to put 'im in a full body-bind to make 'im go, but 'e is sleeping now."

"Good," Hermione said faintly. She wasn't sure how long she had been in bed, but she remembered Ron being there for all of it, at least on the periphery of her vision every time she was fully conscious, and it was about time he got some rest. Not that it hadn't been a comfort, seeing him there.

"'E will stay there for some time, I imagine," Fleur said. "I made 'im drink a glass of pumpkin juice filled with a sleeping draught so 'e will be...'ow you say...vairy zonked for a while."

Hermione gave a weak chuckle. "Zonked?"

"It is something Bill says," Fleur said, sitting down on the bed and inspecting Hermione's face as she chatted. "'Oh, I am totally zonked! Let us go to bed!' Your English words are very strange. You know, at first, I thought zhat this was the name of Tonks? Zonked...Tonks...these sounds are so very foreign to me!"

Hermione laughed again. "That's ridic—aurgh!" She coughed, spluttering as the potion Fleur had forced down her throat as she opened her mouth burned, it's foul taste filling her mouth and very shortly thereafter, stomach.

"Drink this," Fleur said, not unsympathetically, passing her a glass of water. "It will 'elp."

"And that potion won't, I'm sure," Hermione sniped, once her coughing fit had passed.

"It will," Fleur said calmly. "It is skele-gro, to 'elp with your wounds."

"It's _disgusting_!"

"If I added sugar, it would not work. Like so many potions. Now, drink," she added firmly, pointing at the water. Hermione drank, desperate to get rid of the foul taste, but noted grudgingly that she was already starting to feel better. "'Ow are you feeling? Better?" Fleur asked.

"About the same," Hermione said flatly, still annoyed that the other woman had all but tricked her into drinking the vile concoction. She was so bossy, always thinking she knew best about everything.

"Well," Fleur said pleasantly, "I will just wait 'ere for a leettle while, and if it does not start to work, we can give you some more, _non_?"

Hermione flopped back against her pillows with a huff, and Fleur settled herself into a chair next to the bed, smoothing out her pretty blue skirt as she did so. Hermione fought the urge to feel irrationally annoyed with her for this—the chair had been _Ron's_ (as much as a chair in Fleur and Bill's own home could belong to Ron)—and the thought of someone sitting in the chair that he had sat in before _she_ could sit in it made her feel...ridiculous.

That was it. She was being ridiculous. It was just a _chair_.

"Ron, and 'Arry...they told me about what 'appened to you," Fleur said carefully, after a moment or two of silence. Hermione stiffened, and all the good feeling that the potion had brought her seemed to drain out of her at once. She didn't want to think—_couldn't_ think—about what had happened at the Malfoy's manor. "Do they...do they know the whole of it?"

She looked up, startled, and met Fleur's eyes. "Do you know what I am meaning?" the other woman asked, her voice and expression troubled.

"Yes," Hermione replied. "And, no. Nothing like that...happened."

Fleur let out the tiniest of sighs, and nodded. "Good," she said at once. "You and I...and the other women, too of course, but you are with Ron and 'Arry, and they are not... What I am meaning is, there are ways women might be 'urt, that might not 'appen to men. But also...there are things we can do. Spells and curses that we can know, in case...anything ever happens."

"Oh?" Hermione asked. She could not meet Fleur's eye. She knew of such spells; she read a lot in general, and even more in preparation for the trip she had anticipated taking with Harry and Ron, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to even practise them before they left. It was stupid, she knew—downright dangerous, even—but she could not admit, even to herself, what the spells might mean, what might happen to her.

"Hermione," Fleur said, and her voice was as kind as she'd ever heard it, "I will teach you what I know, when you are better. But if anything should 'appen to you... you must know that it would not be your fault. There is great evil in this world, but you do not do anything that makes you deserving of it. None of us do."

Still she could not meet her gaze. "They took me, to torture me," she said, her voice shaking. "And that was because of my blood, not my gender. I couldn't do anything about that, so what can I do to stop..." She trailed off, unable to even say the words.

"Maybe nothing," Fleur said. "But maybe something." She reached out and took Hermione's hand in her own. "You do not 'ave to, if you do not want. But if you do, I will 'elp."

Finally, Hermione looked up. "Yes. Please. I would...I'd really appreciate that."

Fleur nodded. "I should 'ave offered before you left, and I did not. I am sorry."

"It's okay," Hermione said. "We left in such a hurry anyway, and—oh! How was the rest of your wedding? I can't believe I forgot to ask!"

Fleur gave a wry smile. "You mean, after the attack by Death Eaters? Eet was...not so good. But most of the guests fled to safety and in the end we...got rid of zhem." Her gaze hardened. "Nobody was killed, and this is what we must 'ope for, at the present."

"Were your parents...?"

"I made them leave and take Gabrielle," she sighed. "They would 'ave stayed to fight, but they felt the same way I do about 'er; they would not put 'er in danger. And...I was glad. If something 'ad 'appened to them..." She trailed off, and looked out of the window. "I 'ave made my choice. But I did not choose for them. So they should stay away, _en France_."

Hermione thought of Wendall and Monica Wilkins, and nodded. "I understand."

Fleur's gaze turned back to her. "I think that you do," she said.

"It's a shame about your wedding, though," Hermione said quickly, not wanting to get drawn on that topic.

"My dress I am most devastated about," Fleur sighed. "It was the most _beautiful_ creation, made in Paris with Flitterworm Silk and using Veela magic. Truly, it was the one thing I insisted on, that we 'ave that. I would 'ave the wedding in England, if I 'ave to but I would not wear anything less than a _perfect_ dress. Bill said, oh but Fleur, you are beautiful enough—and it is true, I am. But I wanted a dress. And it was everything I wanted. And I was going to keep it forever, as a reminder of the day and all the love...but no." Her expression, which had been rapturous when describing the dress, hardened.

"What happened to it?" Hermione asked.

"It got torn beyond repair in several places; zhere are bloodstains down the left side, and scorch marks all over the back," she sighed. "Magic could do some to repair it, but I would always know. And even the greatest spells would not be enough for it to be new again. There would still be some marks. When I realised, I cried and cried. I know Bill's mother judges me for it, thinks 'oh, why does she get so upset for just a dress?! She is alive isn't she?' But..."

"But it's _more_ than that," Hermione said. "I know it's stupid but...well, I've never been terribly girly, but the other day I found myself wanting to put on a pretty little summer dress and just dance about in it. And normally I hate wearing dresses! I'm just so sick of jeans and _practical_ clothing and keeping warm and...ugh, it's terrible. We have a shower in the tent, and it does the job so I'm clean, but I was thinking the other day how nice it would be to have the bubbliest bath in the world and then put on red lipstick, or something. And I _hate_ red lipstick normally. It smudges everywhere, or gets all over your teeth, but I wanted to wear it just because I want my biggest concern to be: is my lipstick on my teeth?"

"There is a spell for zhat, too," Fleur said, almost absent-mindedly. "To fix your lipstick in place. I know many spells for makeup, though of course I do not really need zhem, but I will show you, if you would like."

"Yes!" Hermione enthused. "I may have to battle the forces of evil, but I will do it wearing red lipstick!" She said it so earnestly, and Fleur nodded so seriously that it took them both a moment to realise how silly they were being. And, when they both did remember and burst out laughing, they couldn't quite care.

* * *

Much, much later that night, or possibly very early the following morning, Fleur awoke with a raging thirst and, when she stole out of the bedroom so as not to wake her husband, she heard voices coming from the room next to her. Creeping towards it, she saw Ron and Hermione sharing a bed, whilst Luna slept on peacefully in the camp-bed beneath the window.

She sighed softly, knowing she would have to be the one to separate them, but knowing too that she didn't want to disturb them, either.

They had been through so much. She alternated between viewing them as children to protect and adults so much older than she was, and she knew that neither was really wrong. She thought she could at least give them a few more moments together, whilst she found something to drink, and so she crept towards the stairs. As she did so, she heard Ron's voice murmur something, and Hermione give the tiniest, sleepiest laugh in response, and her heart ached for them.

Several minutes later, having come back upstairs, she walked purposefully towards the door of the spare bedroom. Harry and the other boy, Dean, were sleeping peacefully downstairs, she had seen, and it was time for Ron to join them. But when she pushed open the door of the spare room, she saw them both asleep on the bed, Ron on top of the covers with Hermione beneath them, hands almost touching.

Fleur paused.

Lined up on the chest next to the bed were several bottles of potions that she had been having Hermione take to help her recover from her ordeal. But it appeared that, perhaps, she had found a much better medicine of her own. And so she turned away, leaving the two of them together. They deserved that, at least.


	21. Chapter 21

Thanks to mmebookworm on tumblr who prompted: **Molly and Arthur when they were young. I see Molly as much like Ginny, and she interests me. Especially as I see Arthur as much like he was when he was older.** Thank you so much, I hope you enjoy :)

* * *

"Dear oh dear oh dear."

"Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear."

"Oh dear oh d—"

"I am trying," Molly said, laying down her quill pointedly and glaring at her brothers, "to write an essay. I have NEWTs next month!"

"NEWTs next month! Did you hear that, Fab?" asked Gideon.

"I did indeed!" replied Fabian. "The lady has NEWTs next month. And you know what I heard she's been spending her nights doing?"

"Or should that be _who_?"

Molly's face flushed deep red, but she ignored her brothers, picking up her quill again and writing neat notes on the parchment before her.

"Or is it _whom_?" Fabian asked. "I never can remember which way round it goes. But fear not! I have a solution. We should refer to him by _name_."

"An excellent plan," Gideon agreed. "But you must remind me: what, exactly, is the name of the bloke who has been taking our sister out at all hours, besmirching her otherwise unsmirchable reputation?"

"Do you think we should have words with the chap?" Fabian asked. Molly underlined a sentence in her textbook with such force that her quill split, and she cursed, reaching for another whilst trying to contain the ink spillage on the page.

"I'm not sure," Gideon replied seriously. "Perhaps if you could be so kind as to inform me of his name, we could decide if he is worth speaking to. I should hate to think of our Mol being taken advantage of..."

"I believe his name is A—"

"Will you two be quiet?" Molly bellowed with such volume that several onlookers in the Common Room turned around and stared, and a fellow seventh year, battling the same tough essay, glared pointedly. "Sorry, sorry," Molly said, flustered, and Fabian and Gideon began to laugh. "For Goodness' sake, what do you _want_?!" she asked. "Can't you see I'm trying to work? My first exam is in nineteen days, and if I don't sort this Transfiguration mess out tonight I'm going to—"

"Not that we are perhaps the best people to be giving this sort of advice, but—don't you think that, if your exams are bothering you that much, you should perhaps do some revision instead of...ooh...I don't know—"

"Spending your all night in the grounds with your paramour?" finished Fabian, as his brother tsked.

"I have done nothing of the sort," Molly replied, in a last gasp of dignity.

"Please," said Gideon. "We've heard all about how Pringle nearly caught you both last night, and why Arthur got all those lashes this morning from him."

"We do want to give him credit for being chivalrous—Weasley, that is, not Pringle—and taking the punishment for you. Very Gryffindor," Fabian said.

Molly sagged slightly. "I feel so bad," she said, knowing there was no point in arguing further. "I wanted to stay too—it way my fault he got so...er...distracted." For once, her brothers let this pass without comment, a mark of how upset she sounded. "But he insisted, and now he's got detention from here until NEWTs begin _and_ a lashing..."

"He's in detention? Bloody hell, I didn't know Weasley had it in him," Gideon said, sounding admiring. "Has he even had one of those before? We should give him tips!"

His question had clearly been rhetorical, but Molly sighed again. "I think he's had about two over his entire school career, and they've been because he forgot to do his homework, usually because he was so distracted by some Muggle nonsense..." She had tried to sound disapproving, but a smile was playing around her lips. "He's so good-natured, he'll get on with anyone. Not like me, I've got a terrible temper. I'm always shouting at people..."

"You? Shout? Never!" said Fabian. The twins were the target of one of her outbursts about three times a week. "Look, seriously," he added. "It's just one thing. It's not a big deal."

"I should've taken the punishment with him!" Molly insisted. "I was _at least_ half at fault. And with all his detentions, and revision and my Prefect duties, we're hardly going to see each other until school is over! I feel so bad..."

"Well, when it is all over, think of how much fun you can have!" Gideon said encouragingly. Molly sighed.

"Don't feel guilty," Fabian added. "Or—if you do, do something nice for him. Get him a present or...something," he finished with a shrug.

"But what could I get him?" Molly asked.

"I dunno, he's your boyfriend," Fabian said. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

* * *

Two days later, Molly approached her brothers, who were sitting under the shade of a big oak tree in the grounds. It was another lovely May evening, and by all rights she should have been strolling around the grounds of the Castle with Arthur. Instead, he was in detention, again, and it was all because of her.

"Whatever it is, we didn't do it," said Gideon, the first to spot her.

"Don't be silly," Molly replied, rolling her eyes. "There haven't been any explosions this evening, so I know you're not up to anything."

"No explosions _yet_," said Fabian, hastily stuffing several sheets of parchment in his schoolbag as she sat down.

"Look, I need your help," his sister said. He began to make a quip about the change from normal circumstances, but Gideon had seen the serious look on his face, and kicked his brother to make him be quiet.

"What is it, Mols?" he asked.

"I was thinking about what you said about getting Arthur a present," she replied. "And I think it's a good idea. I still feel terrible about the whole punishment thing, and I want to make it up to him somehow. There's something I know he's always wanted, but I don't know how to get it. And I thought you might help."

"It's not something rude, is it?" asked Fabian.

She ignored this. "I duplicated a diagram from his Muggle Studies homework the other week," she said. "It's of something called a _battery_." She said the word carefully, like it was foreign. "I don't know what it does, but Arthur's obsessed. But he doesn't know where to get one from, and neither do I really. I was hoping you might be able to help. You're usually able to get your hands on all sorts of things you're not meant to..."

"Why, Molly, that's the nicest thing you've said to us all month," Gideon said, beaming.

Fabian looked equally pleased. "Because of that, we'll see what we can do," he said. "Give us a couple of weeks, and we'll get back to you."

"We can't make any promises," Gideon added, "but when we know more, we'll be in touch. We can't tell you when, or where, or even how, for we must retain an air of mystery to our—"

"I see you at breakfast, lunch and dinner every day," Molly interrupted. "You can tell me then. Just not in front of Arthur. I want to keep this one a secret."

"Alright, your highness..."

* * *

Three weeks later, and two days before her first NEWT, Molly was in the library, trying to stuff as much Charms information into her mind as she possibly could without her brain exploding. For the first time in an age, she was there with Arthur, but sadly she could not actually see him as he was hidden behind a pile of Ancient Runes books. She just assumed he hadn't actually disappeared into a pile of translations, and was still working away opposite.

She was noting down the difference between the charm to eradicate boils and one to merely reduce their appearance when a note fluttered onto her page. Frowning, she turned it over. _The items you required have been obtained. Meet us by the statue of Belinda the Bothersome in ten minutes to acquire them. Bring twelve (12) forms of ID and two (2) Pepper Imps_.

She gave a shriek—hastily muffled—and Arthur's head appeared around an extremely large tome entitled _4358 Runes for Flowers and Herbs, 8__th__ Ed._ "Are you alright, dear?" he asked.

"Fine, fine," she replied. "Would you watch this for me? I just have to pop out for a moment." Without waiting for a response, she rushed out of the library to the statue of Belinda the Bothersome several corridors away.

"Hello?" she said.

"Bring out your ID!"

"Don't be an idiot, Fabian," she said as he appeared.

"I'm Gideon!" he said indignantly.

"No, you're not," Molly snapped, as Gideon appeared. "Do you have my...item?"

"We do," said Gideon. "It was a long and arduous struggle for us to acquire it, but we have succeeded. We had to talk to a man—"

"Who knows a man—"

"Who knows a hippogriff—"

"Who knows a—"

"Alright, alright! Just hand it over," said Molly.

"Do you have our Pepper Imps?" asked Fabian.

"Not at the moment, but I'll buy you all the sweets in the world next Hogsmeade weekend," Molly said impatiently. "Do you have it?"

"We'll hold you to that," promised Fabian. "Hand it over, Gid."

His brother did as was asked, and Molly accepted the package with some trepidation. She hadn't expected it to be quite so...small. Inside, she found the item she had requested, but it was even smaller. "I...are you sure this is it?" she asked.

"Positive," Fabian nodded. "We got it from Jack Halloway in our year; his Dad's a muggle."

"We couldn't believe it either," said Gideon. "But we got someone else who's muggleborn to confirm it. That's definitely a battery."

Molly turned it over in her hands. "What does 'triple A' mean?" she asked.

"Dunno," Fabian replied. "Ask your boyfriend. Where is he, anyway?"

"In the library," Molly answered. "I should go back, before he comes looking for me. But thank you," she added, slipping the package into the pocket of her robes.

"All the sweets in Honeydukes, remember?" Gideon called, as she skipped down the corridor.

"Yeah, yeah!"

* * *

They didn't have as many exams at NEWT level as they had with their OWLs, but the ones they did have were both tougher and longer. All the seventh years were feeling the strain, barely clinging on, but both Molly and Arthur had something of a reprieve in their second week of exams. Both had to suffer through a four hour Transfiguration written paper on Monday, but then Arthur didn't have another exam until Thursday morning's Muggle Studies, and Molly had until Friday before she had to face her Charms practical.

They had long ago decided that Tuesday would be _their_ day, doing nothing but strolling the grounds and finding shaded spots to snuggle up together, forgetting about exams for one day. The weather held out, remaining gloriously sunny as the roamed around enjoying nothing but each other's company for what felt like the first time in a very long time.

"I suppose we should be getting back to the castle for lunch," Arthur said with some reluctance as they heard a bell ring in the far distance. Molly shook her head, indicating her schoolbag. She'd used brought down some sandwiches and cakes, and a bottle of lemonade for them to share, using charms to keep the food fresh and whole.

"You are perfect, you know that?" Arthur said seriously, and she laughed. They enjoyed them in the shade of the willow trees—both being redheads, they had to stay out of the sun or be at risk of turning the same colour as Apollyon Pringle when he'd caught them together—and lazed around afterwards, enjoying one small day of freedom.

"I could fall asleep," yawned Arthur.

"Don't," replied Molly. "I've got something for you."

"More cake? I couldn't eat another thing," he replied. In response, she handed him a package, neatly wrapped and tied with a ribbon.

"It's not cake," she said, as Arthur frowned.

"Have I forgotten an anniversary?" he asked.

She laughed. "No, silly. I wanted to get you something, because you wouldn't let me be part of the punishment from Pringle. I know, I know, you were okay with it," she said hurriedly, as he looked about to protest. "I just...wanted to get you something because I like you. A lot." She turned pink as she said this, and he leaned forward and pecked her lips.

"I'm sure I'll love it, whatever it is," he said gallantly, and Molly, barely able to supress her excitement, demanded he open it at once.

He tore of the paper, and she watched his face change from generically pleased to totally ecstatic. "_Molly_!" he cried. "It's a _battery_!"

"It is!" she said, before her words were muffled by his passionate kiss.

"But where did you get it?" he asked in wonder, once they'd broken apart.

She looked smug. "I have my sources."

"My God," he said, staring at the battery. "I definitely picked the right girl."

Molly laughed aloud. "I'll say," she agreed. "But, there's one thing I have to know. I don't understand what it is, this battery thing. What does it do? What _is_ it? What's it for?"

"Oh, the battery?" Arthur asked. "Well it's...it's a battery, right, which means it...I believe they have many uses—many _varied_ uses—and muggles use them for all sorts of things. As for what they are, they're...well they're..."

Molly's eyes narrowed, and the tips of his ears turned pink. "You mean you don't know?" she asked, unable to believe how much effort she'd put in to procure something he didn't understand.

"I...well I...I mean...I have _some _understanding...but...no," he said ruefully. "No, I don't. But I am going to have _so much fun_ taking it apart to fully understand it!"

"Honestly," she said, shaking her head. She tried to be angry, but he looked so sweet, she couldn't quite manage it. "I expect a three foot essay on the function of a battery when you're done," she said primly.

He laughed. "I can think of something else I'd rather be doing," he said.

"Like what?" she challenged.

"This," he said, and kissed her.


	22. Chapter 22

"Alright, what's wrong?" asked Ron, watching as Hermione picked up and very shortly thereafter threw down her third book in as many minutes.

"Nothing's wrong!" she snapped back, summoning a cloth from the kitchen. She began to scrub vigorously at the already spotless coffee table, before giving up a moment later and throwing the cloth down, too, with a sigh. Ron, sat on the sofa, eyed her above his newspaper.

"Nothing's wrong," she repeated.

"I didn't say anything!" Ron said, turning to the sport section.

"I just...do you know what day it is?" Hermione asked.

"Wednesday?"

"No! Well, yes, obviously. But it's _the first of September_. Hogwarts day! The train leaves in..." She broke off, checking her watch. "One hour and twenty-six minutes. And I won't be on it!"

"That's definitely a good thing," Ron said. "Last year was awful—I had to pack you off on the train knowing that my only company for the next three months would be His Royal Specciness, who would be in a terrible mood the entire time because he was missing _Ginny_ of all people. This year, we're both here together _and_ we don't have to see Harry's ugly mug until...well, actually until I go into work later today. But _you_ probably won't have to see him until the weekend, so you should count yourself lucky!"

"It just doesn't feel _right_," Hermione sighed. "I know we didn't go to back two years ago, but that doesn't count. It wasn't really Hogwarts then, was it? But now, the threats have gone, and school is back, and everything is _normal_, but I'm not going! No textbooks to buy, no robes to get fitted for, no labelling up of all your supplies, no arrival at Kings Cross, seeing all the people you haven't seen in months, no wonderful old steam train..."

"Okay, you really have lost it now," Ron said. "You can't get nostalgic over a _train_!"

Hermione looked offended. "It was the place we met! It's very important to our relationship!"

"Well then I'll be sure to invite it to our wedding," Ron said. Hermione huffed. "Come on, love, sit down," Ron said, putting the newspaper down and patting the sofa next to him. His girlfriend dithered for a moment, then complied.

"It's just strange," she said. "School was so important for so long—even the year we didn't go back, there was a part of me that was fighting so that there would be a school to go back to. And we won, and I went back, and now...it's done. Finished. The end. And that feels so weird."

"That's growing up for you," Ron said, "but I suppose it's better than the alternative." They both considered this.

"I know," she replied. "And I'm so lucky to do the job I've always wanted to, and to enjoy it...to have you, to live with you. I'm not complaining about that, I love it all. But...it's still strange. There's a part of me that wants to run round, shove everything into my trunk, apparate across London and jump on the train."

"I'm sure Hagrid would be pleased to see you when you arrived," Ron said. "Actually, we haven't seen him in a while. Maybe we _should_ go up today, to say hello?"

"For old time's sake? Why not?" Hermione agreed. She snuggled into his side, sighing. "Oh, how am I going to survive until the train leaves?! I'm going spare!"

Ron grinned. "I've an idea for how to distract you..."

Hermione matched his smile. "I'm all ears."

"All hands, more like..."

* * *

"Oh! I missed it!"

"Missed what?" Ron asked sleepily.

"The train!" Hermione replied. "I was going to do something at eleven, but look, it's almost quarter to twelve. We missed the train!"

"McGonagall will have to give us detention," said Ron. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for not wearing your school uniform. Or in fact any clothes at all."

"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Mr Weasley, for distracting Miss Granger in such a manner!" Hermione added.

"Oi, you enjoyed it. Besides, you were participating one hundred percent there," he said.

"No, you were definitely a bad influence," Hermione said. "_I_ was a model student, remember?"

"Yes, you definitely never ever persuaded us to break the rules," Ron said. "It was absolutely me and Harry leading you on all the time. You didn't come up with any of our ridiculousness at all."

"I had to be the voice of reason," she argued.

"Yes, the voice of reason is well known for illegally brewing potions in disused girls' toilets," Ron joked. "Merlin's balls, we were _twelve_," he added, sobering slightly. "How did we get away with it?"

"It's mad, isn't it?" Hermione said, shaking her head. "And it's funny, despite everything that ended up happening, we had a lot of fun, didn't we? And that's why it's so hard to think that we won't be going back ever, and the train—"

"Oh, give it a rest!" Ron said, but he was laughing. "Come on, it's only what...ten years until we can send Teddy off."

"We'll _have_ to be there," Hermione said solemnly.

"Of course," Ron agreed. "Someone needs to be on standby to mop up Harry's tears."

"Naturally," she said. "And then maybe in a few more years, we'll be there with our own children."

"Yes!" enthused Ron, then turned pale. "Wait—are you trying to tell me you're pregnant?"

"No!" Hermione all but shrieked. "No no no no no no no!" She shook her head vigorously, in case he still had any lingering doubts. "Kids one day would be nice, but _not_ right now."

"That's alright then," Ron said, breathing slightly more easily. "Merlin, it's weird to think that we might one day have children...not just babies, children old enough to be sent off on the Hogwarts Express..." Hermione laughed. "What?"

"I'm just thinking," she said, " that we'll have to warn our hypothetical children about the true dangers lurking on the train..."

Ron frowned. "A face full of soot, if you open the window that the wrong time? Being run over by the Trolley Lady?"

"Meeting the love of your life on there," Hermione said, "and having your first direct interaction with them being informing them they have dirt on their nose. Not exactly up there with the great romantic poets, is it?"

"Poetry is bollocks," declared Ron. "And it hasn't done us any harm, has it?"

"I suppose," laughed Hermione.

"Besides, if you're truly worried about dirty appendages, you should check my—" He didn't finish that sentence, but as she cut him off by kissing him, he didn't consider it to be a terrible waste.

**Psst. It's Romione shipweek. Yay! (Apologies if you got 2 notifications. Accidentally uploaded wrong file, d'oh!)**


	23. Chapter 23

**WARNING for Pottermore spoilers. In the sense that this won't really make sense unless you've read today's update on The Potter Family on Pottermore. So, if you have...enjoy? This is total nonsense :)**

"Hermione, you look lovely!" Ginny said, as her friend entered the room, dressed in a beautiful set of sky blue robes for the occasion.

Hermione beamed at Ginny, and returned the compliment. Ginny, however, pulled a face. "These robes are _awful_, really hideous," she said, gesturing to her own outfit. "They're so…Percy!"

"It _is_ his wedding," Hermione reminded her, "and if you didn't want to be a bridesmaid so many times, you shouldn't have had all those brothers!"

"It's my own fault," Ginny agreed, laughing. "And I do love Percy, I _do,_ but this wedding! I will be so glad when it's over and we can all relax. He's so uptight about everything! If I turn up with so much as a hair out of place, he's going to bar me from the venue entirely!"

"Then I don't think I'll be allowed within a fifty mile radius of it," Harry said, coming into the living room with a comb and a rueful expression. His hair was particularly wild today; both he and Ginny had wrestled with it to no avail earlier, and it was still lying all over the place.

"I like the way you look," Ginny said, "and I wouldn't change your hair for anything, but it does annoy me that I never manage to beat it. It always wins!"

"And you're not used to losing, I know," Harry said, and she smiled smugly at him.

"You know, I think I have some Sleakeazy's left over upstairs," said Hermione, trying to cut them off before they got too sickening.

"Sleakeazy's?" asked Harry.

"Yes, you know, the hair tonic," she replied. "To smooth out your hair? Honestly, I'm surprised you don't have any yourself, given the family connection!"

"…family connection?" he asked again, sounding even more confused.

"Come on, you must know," Hermione said impatiently. "Or you must, Ginny—Potters, Sleakeazy's…no?" Harry and Ginny exchanged mutual baffled looks, and she rolled her eyes. "Sleakeazy's hair tonic was invented by Fleamont Potter, your grandfather, and made him a fortune. I read all about it in _Three Hundred and Twelve Wizarding Entrepreneurs of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries_."

"Of course you did," Ginny said at once, whilst Harry mouthed 'Fleamont' several times.

"Did you really not know about the connection?" Hermione asked. "I'd have said ages ago if I knew you hadn't heard…"

"No, I had no idea!" said Ginny. "But…that's so cool!" she added, sounding delighted. "I just always assumed it had been around, but no—turns out your Grandad invented it. How fascinating!"

"What's fascinating?" asked Ron, appearing in the room. His eyes widened as he took in Ginny's dress. "You look like Madam Puddifoot's threw up on you," he said.

Ginny looked highly affronted. "I think she looks beautiful," Harry said.

"Yes but no offence, mate, you're basically blind," Ron said. "Don't make that face, I didn't say there was something wrong with _you_. It's the dress that's hideous," he added to Ginny, who was looking more and more offended. She frowned, trying to work out if she disliked Ron or her dress robes more in that moment. "Anyway, what's fascinating?"

"Harry's Granddad was the person to invent Sleakeazy's hair tonic," Hermione said quickly, trying to avert an argument. "They didn't know until now, did you?"

"No," Ron said slowly, a grin forming on his face. "No, I didn't know, but…" He started to laugh, and was soon doubled over in near hysterics.

"What's so funny?" asked Harry.

Ron wiped his eyes. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "It's just hilarious to me that someone who invented a potion to make your hair look sleek, smooth and under control ended up with a grandson who has hair like _that_!" He pointed to Harry's hair, which obligingly became even more unruly than it had been previously, and dissolved into laughter once again.

"Do you know if Harry's relatives invented any other hair potions, Hermione?" Ginny asked loudly.

"Erm, no, I don't think so," Hermione said, "though it's been a while since I've read the book. Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking it would be really useful for _some_ people," she glared at Ron, "if they'd created a hair tonic that stops you going bald." Harry started to laugh. "But I guess even magic can't fix everything!"


	24. Chapter 24

A response to the following prompt: _Ron is injured during an Auror mission, and loses his memory of being with Hermione. He wakes up in St Mungo's and doesn't understand that we're together. Fluff ensues. Bonus points if Harry and/or Ginny have to explain that they're dating._ Utterly ridiculous, and highly medically inaccurate. Enjoy anyway?

* * *

"Oh my God, Hermione! Thank Merlin. I came as soon as I could, Harry owled me, but the idiots in charge didn't pass it on me until I'd finished training—_training_! Like that's important right now!—and then I had to get through the Croatian Ministry, and, well, I thought I was asking for the first available _Portkey_ back to England, but it turns out I was asking for the first available _potato_ back to England, and then—but it doesn't matter, how is he, what's going on?!"

"All clear," Hermione replies, cutting across her frantic shouting, and Ginny visibly sags against the wall. "He was in a lot of danger at first—the hit several rather vital arteries with severing charms—" Ginny squeaks, "—but the team of Healers were incredible, and the other Aurors, too. They were able to stem the flow of the bleeding long enough to get him here, then the professionals took over and he's going to be absolutely fine, once he's rested."

"Oh, thank God," Ginny says again. "Where's Harry? Can I see him? Ron, I mean, but I'll see Harry too, and—"

"Ginny—" Hermione leads her to some chairs in the waiting room, sits her down gently. Ginny gets the feeling she's withholding something, something important, and she begins to panic. Ron's absolutely fine—that's what she said, her own words. "All clear", Hermione said that too, but there's something... Ginny realises that, despite the fact that her fiancé was almost killed in the line of duty earlier, Hermione is remarkably relaxed. More than relaxed, she seems to be supressing amusement.

She resists the urge to whip out her wand and make her magically prove her identity, like they used to during the war. This isn't Hermione. If Ron is in any kind of danger at all, she's always in full meltdown mode, fussing and panicking not...giggling?

"What's going on?!"

Hermione waits for a passing Healer to leave, then turns back to Ginny. "He's going to be fine. His injuries will heal completely in a very short space of time, and he is in no long-term danger at all. He'll get a couple of weeks' medical leave from the Aurors, then be able to return to work with no problems, the Healers have assured us."

"But?" asks Ginny.

"But they gave him some pain killing potions, and..."

"He's allergic to them?"

"Not exactly," Hermione says, lips twitching. "It's probably easier just to show you. Come on, he's through here. Harry's there, too."

She leads the way down the corridor, and Ginny tries to brace herself, but it's hard to do that when you don't know what you're bracing yourself for. Hermione's taller than she is, and they're so close behind that she can't see around her when she opens the door first. "Ron?" she says gently. "I'm back! And look who I found."

She steps aside, and Ginny gets a good look at her brother for the first time. He's a bit pale, maybe, and he _is_ in a hospital bed, which always makes anyone look ten times iller than they actually are. But for someone who was badly hurt in an Auror-assignment-gone-wrong not six hours ago, he doesn't look too bad at all.

"Ah," he says brightly, turning to Ginny. "Mum! Cor! You've lost weight."

Ginny's mouth drops open. Hermione bursts into a fit of giggles and Harry stuffs his fist in his mouth to prevent himself from joining her. "_Mum_?!" she says, but Ron is already ignoring her.

"I can tell her what to do, now," he says to Harry. "Because I'm a Nora. Nora. I'm Nora. I have a _badge_. It says Nora. I'm Ron and I'm Nora. It's my job."

Hermione has to sit down in a nearby chair, she's giggling so much.

"They give me money to do Nora, Harry," Ron says, nodding.

"Is that so?" Harry manages.

"Uh-huh. But I've got another job, too. I do shops. I...amma shopkeeper. And I wear a robe that's _magenta_. I do, you know," he says, as though there was a question over this fact. "You might not believe it, but it's true. It doesn't look very good, though, pink. On me. Do you know why? It's because I have...hair," he whispers this last, in the same sort of tone you might admit to having a bizarre fetish, or an embarrassing illness on an unfortunately private body part.

And it's too much for Harry, who has to remove his glasses to wipe away the tears of laughter.

"Oh dear..." Hermione giggles, wiping at her own eyes.

"He's high on painkiller?" Ginny asks, amused.

Hermione nods. "The Healers have assured us he'll be totally fine," she says. "It can happen sometimes with the really strong potions; they had to give him something intense because of the extent of his injuries." She visibly sobers, and Ginny reaches over and takes hold of her hand, squeezing it tightly.

"He _will_ be fine," Hermione says again, sounding more confident. "But at first—well. We were worried. Harry got a message to me, I was at work and I came straight here—I actually arrived at the same time they did, saw him covered in blood on the port-stretcher. It was horrifying. We didn't know, then, that his injuries were relatively superficial, and it was...scary. So obviously we were both incredibly relieved to hear everything would be okay, and then when they bought him out like this...I suppose it's as much hysteria on our part as it is on his."

"I'm so sorry I wasn't there sooner," Ginny says, but Hermione waves off her apology. (Harry is busy trying to guess what animal Ron's being—his impersonation is apparently of a dragon, but all he's doing is screwing up his face tightly and Ginny thinks Harry's doing well not to tell him he looks like a constipated owl.)

"You were busy; it's fine. Your parents came, and Percy—he was at the Ministry, too. They left only about half an hour ago, when it became clear that there was little else we could do for Ron but wait for this to pass. The Healers pop in every now and then to check on him, but there's nothing to worry about. Based on the dose they gave him, the effects should wear off in a couple of hours which means—"

"Oh, shut up, Hermy-oh-ninny!" Ron barks.

There's a sudden, immediate silence and Ginny has to stifle a laugh at the expression on Hermione's face. It's probably fairly similar to the one she was wearing when Ron called her Mum. Then, before any of them can say anything, Ron slaps a hand across his face. "Oh, oh no!" he says. "Oh no. Oh Harry. Oh, no."

"What is it, Ron?" Harry asks patiently.

"Oh, this is bad," Ron says, starting to shake his head violently. "Very bad. Much bad. I'm bad. Oh no."

"Is it wise for him to be getting this agitated?" Hermione asks crisply. It's her Wizengamot voice, Ginny notes.

"Ssh, Ron, it's okay," Harry says gently, reaching out to him. "You're alright. It's okay." Ron grabs his arm in a vice-like grip, yanking Harry forwards.

"Should I send for a Healer?" Hermione says. Ginny half-rises from her chair.

"We should be okay, shouldn't we Ron?" Harry says cheerfully. "We're all okay, yeah? It's alright. It's okay." The soothing works—Ron's still holding onto him, looking horrified, but the excessive head-shaking has stopped, at least.

"I'm not okay. I told my-Hermione to shut up. Not going to be okay. I won't. She's going to...to...to cut bits of me off. Important bits. She might...Harry, what if she goes for my TOES?!" He looks genuinely afraid.

"Maybe you should work on toning down your aggression," Ginny stage-whispers to Hermione, whilst Harry reassures him that Hermione won't, probably, do that. "Stop him living in fear of you."

"Oh, shush," Hermione says, waving a hand at her. She's still staring at Ron, her face a mixture of insulted, amused, concerned, and Ginny wonders which emotion she'll let win.

"You just don't get it, Harry," Ron says. "You're a moron. I shouldn't've insulted her. Now she'll _never_ fancy me!"

This is too much for Ginny, who bursts into peals of laughter, but Ron ignores this. It's as though he's already forgotten that the two women are in the room. "Oh, Harry," he sighs. "I like her _so much_. She's so great. She's got...legs, and everything. And a really huge...what's it called...brain. I _really_ fancy her."

"Did you have any idea?" Ginny gasps, faux-shocked. Hermione won't meet her eye, but her lips are twitching again.

"You fancy her, huh?" asks Harry. "Blimey. I had no idea."

"Oh, good," Ron says quickly. "That means she probably doesn't, either. But actually. You're no good at noticing _anything_. She's good at noticing. She's got huge noticers. She probably does know I fancy her. Oh _dear_. What'm I gonna do?"

"He may be high as a kite but he does have a point, you know. You _are_ totally clueless most of the time," Ginny says, and Harry sticks his tongue out at her. Apparently, immaturity is catching.

"Look," says Harry, turning back to Ron. "Maybe it won't be that bad. Maybe she fancies you, too."

"Ooh, do you Hermione?" squeals Ginny. "Do you fancy him, do you?!"

"Look, I've only got time in my life for one ridiculous red-head at the moment," Hermione replies, "and poor Ron has an excuse for his condition."

"Poor Ron?" Ginny echoes. "You're kind of flattered by this, aren't you?" she adds, noticing Hermione's faint blush. "Ooh, Hermione, I really fancy you too, your huge brain really turns me on—"

"Don't tease him," Hermione says primly. "It's not his fault he's been adversely affected by this potion. We shouldn't mock him when he's incapacitated."

"You'd better hope it's temporary," Ginny says, as Ron demands to know if Harry really thinks Hermione would ever fancy him.

"...maybe?" Harry says, smirking.

Ron's eyes bulge. "_Really_? Bloody hell." This shuts him up for all of three seconds, and Ginny's about to ask if she can go and get the others some food—its dinner time, but she thinks popcorn might be more appropriate—when Ron pipes up again. "How'd you think I could get her to fancy me?"

"Oh, you know," Harry says vaguely, "just be yourself. And get her flowers, chocolates, the usual stuff..."

"Hmm," says Ron, sounding morose. "I can't be me. I'm not really fanciable. Hermione's too clever to like a guy like _me_." Ginny swears she actually _hears_ Hermione's heart melt at this, as she leans forward, opening her mouth, but Harry shakes his head, holding up a hand to her. She looks instead at Hermione, who's looking at Ron with such a disgustingly sappy expression that Ginny feels quite nauseated. And a little bit amused, too.

Ron appears to have forgotten that there's anyone else in the room except Harry, and he looks forlornly at his best friend. "Ron," Harry says firmly. "I have it on good authority that Hermione absolutely does fancy you. You're very fanciable. To. Er. Hermione."

"No," Ron insists. "Girls like guys like Draco Malfoy. Dunno why. S'got a face like a bum."

Hermione giggles, trying to stifle the sound so Ron won't look around and realise she's there. "He's got a point," Ginny stage-whispers to her. "Draco Malfoy _has_ got a face like a bum."

"It's why I fancy him so much," Hermione nods, and it's Ginny's turn to stifle her giggles. Harry, meanwhile, is trying to convince Ron that Hermione doesn't fancy Draco Malfoy and instead likes him. Honestly, thinks Ginny, it's like they're all thirteen years old again.

"Look, Ron," Harry says in his no-nonsense voice. "I have some news for you, about Hermione. You've got to listen to what I've got to say, okay?"

"Okay," Ron says, nodding rapidly and trying to push himself upright.

"Now, listen," says Harry. "You were hurt in an accident earlier today. You're going to be totally fine, but the reason you feel a bit funny at the moment is because they had to give you some very strong potions to stop the pain, and they've made your brain go a bit weird temporarily."

"This is the fifth time we've told him this," Hermione says to Ginny. "He keeps forgetting."

"But I have to tell you something. Hermione likes you very much. In fact, you're engaged to her," Harry explains gently. "You've been together many years now, and last year you asked her to marry you. She said yes. So you don't need to worry about anything. She likes you—even when you're a blithering idiot, like you are now—and once the potion has worn off, you're going to go home with her and live happily ever after."

"I'm...I'm engaged to HERMIONE?!" Ron shouts. He sounds like Harry's just told him he's won the lottery, or that he's been chosen to rule the world. Harry assures him it's true. This takes some time.

"I'm _definitely_ engaged to her?" he asks, after about the fifth round of assurances.

"You're definitely engaged to her," Harry says.

"_Bloody hell_," Ron says, with feeling.

There's a rather extended pause, during which Harry closes his eyes and leans back against the uncomfortable chair. Because of the mission, he's been awake for nearly twenty-four hours now, and has spent most of said hours on a tense and difficult mission, then worrying about Ron whilst he was in surgery. Once he knew his best friend would be okay, he had visions of meeting up with Ginny and finding some way to relax with her. Some way that did not involve reassuring her older brother about his romantic capabilities... The world often seems to have a different agenda, when it comes to him and Ginny, though.

"Harry," Ron says, very seriously.

"Yes," he says, equally grave.

"If we're engaged—me an' Hermione, I mean, not me and you. Don't wanna be engaged with you. You're really vacant. Not engaged at all. Me and Hermione. Should we. Do you think. Do you think..." and he lowers his voice, looking around as best he can from his lying down position in the bed.

"Do you think we've had sex?" he says conspiratorially.

"At _least_ twice," Harry says seriously.

"Cor," says Ron. Then, once more, with serious feeling. "_Cor_."

Ginny's laughing so hard she's no longer making any noise at all. Hermione is biting her lip and trying very, _very_ hard not to suggest to her fiancé that she is in any way making fun of him whilst he's medically incapacitated. Harry just looks resigned.

"That's what," he says, "she said."


	25. Chapter 25

_I know that the haircut scene is movie-verse only but BEAR WITH._

Harry had never really given much thought to washing his hair. When he'd been very young, Aunt Petunia had washed it for him, which had mostly involved yanking and tugging and very cold water and stinging chemicals in his eyes. As soon as he was old enough to open the shampoo bottles by himself, she'd made him wash his own hair and, like brushing his teeth or putting on clothes every morning, it just because a practical task, something that was just done, nothing special.

At least until two weeks after the war's end, when Ginny had fixed his hair with a Look over the breakfast table and told him that today she was going to sort it out, once and for all. His time on the run had left it tangled, knotted and dirty, and even living back in a proper house with actual sanitation (a luxury he still wasn't over) it hadn't recovered yet. Physically, the rest of his wounds were well on their way to healing: he'd been lucky, in the end, to escape with mostly superficial injuries to his body. His mind was a different story, however, and his hair seemed to want to reflect that. It looked as terrible as his nightmares felt. No matter how much he washed it, it would not get clean. It was as though his hair was trying to be a metaphor for his whole mind, he tried to explain to Ginny.

"Alright, Lady Macbeth," she said, filling a bowl with warm water.

She led him out onto the yard, sitting him in a garden chair and wrapping a towel around his neck. Then, she got to work. She rinsed and shampooed his hair over and over, working her fingers through the knots and tangles with such ease and gentleness that it was almost like having a massage, so far removed was it from the rough scrubbings Aunt Petunia used to give him. She was tender and patient but thorough, and as she rinsed, again and again and again, Harry felt as though it was more than just his hair she was fixing.

The water stayed at just the right temperature, warm but not too hot, and she was using her own shampoo, the smell comfortingly familiar to him. The sun warmed his face, and the only sounds he could hear were the chickens clucking around them in the garden, the occasional bumblebee humming lazily past them. They were the only two people in this world, and if he closed his eyes, he could pretend, just for a moment, that everything that had happened, hadn't.

Harry knew that, at some point, he would have to talk to Ginny. About Fred, about where he had been, about what he had done. About the Horcruxes, and Riddle's diary. She would have to talk to him, too, about school, and the Carrows, and the DA. And they would have to talk about _them_. About what they had been, and what they might yet become.

He wanted to tell her about the nights—the many, many nights—spent tracing her tiny dot on his father's map. And how, when he knew that he would die, she was the only thing on his mind and in his heart. But these words required time to come correctly, and right now, silence was all they both needed.

It was Ginny who broke it, after almost three quarters of an hour, not with words but with a sort of half hum of disapproval. "What is it?" he asked muzzily.

He felt Ginny tug gently on different locks of his hair before she replied. "Your hair," she said. "When did you last get it cut?"

"Dunno," he replied. "I lost track of the time…Hermione did it. Maybe a month before Christmas?"

"Hmm," said Ginny. "That girl's good at lots of things, but she can't cut hair to save her life."

"Don't worry," he said, attempting a joke. "Next time, I won't go without packing my own barber."

"_Next_ time?" Ginny asked, and without turning around, he could see her one raised brow. It was a trick he'd never managed to master, and maybe it was because of that that he found it so attractive.

"Yeah," he said grinning. "Maybe not. Can you fix it?"

"Your hair?" she asked. "Well, I suppose I should—I can't have a boyfriend with a Barnet as bad as this. Hermione must've cut this with a hacksaw, I swear." Harry snorted. "Pass me the scissors; I'll see what I can do."

He reached for them and passed them back to her without turning around, until he felt her fingers meet his and something about her words clicked in his brain. He tightened his grip on the scissors and twisted in his chair, looking up at her. "Boyfriend?"

It was an unusual perspective: he was normally a foot or so above her, but now he was the one looking upwards, watching a faint blush colour her cheeks. She hesitated for a moment, both of them still holding hands via the scissors, but she held his gaze. Then her mouth twisted into a smirk, and, in a teasing voice, she said, "Are you asking me out, Potter?"

He matched her grin. "I don't know," he said. "Are _you_ asking _me_ out?"

Ginny's lips twitched. "How about," she said slowly, "for now, I just cut your hair?"

Harry relinquished the scissors, but held on to her hand for a moment. "For now," he said, "that sounds good."


	26. Chapter 26

_Thanks to Diva-Gonzo for the prompt Your muse crying about something/ Bill x Ron, when Hermione finally is coherent and Ron's relieved :)_

He doesn't really remember ever seeing Ron cry when they were younger. He's sure this is just some kind of false memory: all babies cry, right? Toddlers and little kids, too. Ron _must_have cried. But he can't remember a single occasion when he did.

Right now, he can only recall two memories from childhood that star Ron: holding him, when he was only two hours old, and seeing these big blue eyes blink back up at him and thinking how strange it was to see his father's old eyes in a face so very young, and the time Ron broke his arm falling out of a tree in the orchard. It had been Ginny who screamed then, as loud as her little lungs could, yelling and yelling for their mother, and later Ginny who had cried in the hospital, thinking the injury was her fault because she'd dared Ron to climb the tree.

Bill recalls comforting her at St Mungo's, taking her on his lap and rocking her to try to stop the sobs and watching Ron, sandwiched between himself and Mum, white and clammy and clearly in a lot of pain and yet, somehow, _not crying_. Mum went in to see the Healer with Ron, and Bill took Ginny in search of sweeties from the canteen to cheer her up, so he supposes that he might have cried then, when he wasn't in front of his big brother. And there had probably been other, less major injuries and hurts that had made him cry, over the years, that Bill hadn't been aware of.

And maybe that, too, was the problem. Sometimes, Ron felt more like his nephew than his brother, not because he didn't love him, but because he simply hadn't been there whilst he was growing up. They were too far apart in age—Bill has been in school since Ron was two, and then after he finished at Hogwarts, he had left.

He hadn't just left Ron; he'd left Ginny and the twins and Percy and Charlie, too. He couldn't tell you what Ginny's first word had been. He could maybe hazard a guess at her favourite colour or Quidditch team, but he couldn't say for certain. He knew that one of the twins was allergic to shellfish but, hand on heart, couldn't say if it was Fred or George. He knew that Percy had had a serious girlfriend for several years, and thought that maybe her name had begun with 'P', too, but he wasn't sure. Charlie had lived in Romania for many years now, but he still didn't know if he could speak the language fluently.

A _proper_ big brother would know all of these things, just as a proper big brother would know what to do, on finding his youngest brother sobbing on the kitchen floor. A proper big brother could _cope_, would not think of his other siblings ex-girlfriends or minor allergies when he was supposed to be thinking about how to protect Ron from whatever evil had thrust him and his friends on their doorstep several hours ago, having clearly been tortured.

Bill is tempted, for a moment, to walk back out of the kitchen and pretend he hasn't seen his brother's tears. He can pretend to himself this is to allow Ron to save face, or for the sake of his pride. He's eighteen now, an adult in the muggle _and_ magical worlds. He wouldn't want to be seen weeping like a baby by his big brother, like he hadn't wanted Bill to see him crying when he'd broken his arm, aged seven.

But this is a lie. It isn't Ron's pride he's thinking of. It is his own terror.

It is the fear that had kept him running for years, away from his home and his family, away from everyone that might love him. The feelings inside him, the darkness and the sadness that _would_ _not_ go away, no matter what he did. This isn't a terror that can be blamed on the war, or the horrifying things Ron and Harry and Hermione, and so many others, had experienced. This fear that lived inside him was something deeper, something that wouldn't go away even if everyone woke up tomorrow morning and found that Voldemort had been killed and all his followers surrendered. This terror stops him from crossing the room and holding his brother when he clearly needs him, because what if he doesn't get it right? What if he can't fix it? The fear of failing keeps him from trying, even now.

And Bill _hates _himself for it.

It's Fleur who saves him. Again. Fleur, who has saved him where no one else has, yet. Fleur, who is arrogant and boastful and spiteful and a hundred other such things, but who had looked at the face of the thing that lives inside him and said in that fierce, loving voice_no_ and _you cannot have him_ and _he is mine, not yours_. Fleur, who has pulled him out, time and time again, told him he is worth it, told him to keep going.

This time, she creeps up to him in the doorway and says, "She is sleeping, but she will be okay. We are all safe, for now." And when he looks at her, silently questioning, she simply pushes him forwards and adds, "Tell 'im."

And she turns and walks back up the stairs, and Bill crosses the kitchen floor and kneels down and wraps his brother in his arms and holds him as he shakes and sobs and soaks his shirt front. Ron, at eighteen, is more grown up than he is at twenty seven. Ron has seen more, known more, been through more than most people in their forties or seventies or nineties. Ron hasn't been a child for a long, long time, and maybe that isn't fair, but it is how it is.

Ron has to be strong for Harry, who has to be strong for the whole of Britain, or maybe the whole world. But Bill can be strong for Ron, and if Fleur was strong for _him_, it would work out. Somehow.

He worries, at first, that he won't know what to say to him. But Ron can only say one word, one name, over and over, through his tears, and Bill thought of Fleur's words and soothed and promised and swore that she would be okay. And, eventually, when the tears ran their course and Ron calmed enough to ask after the others and to see if they were safe in the cottage, and he had said that they were, and not to worry, Bill knew what else to say.

"You love her."

And if Ron had been a child crying on the kitchen floor a moment ago, he's entirely an adolescent when he blushes and fidgets and says, shyly and hopefully and haltingly, "D'you think she likes me, too?"

He's about to laugh—actually laugh!—and say to him "Don't be stupid!", but then he remembers the past year, with Fleur and his mother and the rest of his family too, and thinks that, maybe, love does make you stupid. And Ron has a right to be young and stupid and in love, like he did and they did and the whole world does. So he bites his tongue and says, truthfully, "I think the two of you are meant for each other."

"Really?"

"_Yes_," Bill says, and Ron sort of sags against him and Bill lets him, lets him sit there with him as long as he needs to, until his breathing grows slow and soft, and then he nudges him, ever so gently, with his shoulder.

"You should get some sleep," he says firmly, "proper sleep. In a bed. You need a rest. Fleur's set up the guest room for you and Harry and the other lad."

"Mm'fine here," Ron mumbles, and this, _this_, is what Bill remembers from childhood.

It's just there, suddenly, in his brain like he'd never forgotten it: images coming back from school and telling Ron, the only one who'd listen about what he'd been up to at Hogwarts. Charlie'd only want to know about Quidditch and Percy'd pretty much make him recite his lessons again and again and _no one_ could get the twins to listen to anything but Ron would sit, rapt, as he told him about feasts and secret passages and snowball fights and cosy common rooms and a hundred other things. He'd listened and listened and listened as Bill talked and talked and talked and eventually he'd fallen into almost-sleep, and Bill had tried to send him off to bed, but he'd slumped against him and said _mm'fine here_ in the same voice and, right now, Bill would give all the gold in Gringotts to turn back the clock to that moment.

But he doesn't, and instead forces Ron up the stairs, into some pyjamas, under the covers. His brother is all but sleepwalking in his total exhaustion, accepting Bill undressing him and helping him in a way that would normally leave him cringing in embarrassment, but Bill has been here, too. Ron won't remember, in the morning, and Bill won't tell him.

And then, just as he dims the lights and pulls a blanket around his brother, Ron's eyes open and look at him with total clarity and asks, again, "_Is she going to be okay_?"

"She is," Bill promises.

"How do you know?" Ron asks.

"Because," Bill says, "she has you."


	27. Chapter 27

**Happy (belated!) Birthday, Ron Weasley. **

* * *

"Happy birthday, mate."

Ron blinks as Harry drops a card and a terribly wrapped package in his lap. "We're doing presents?" he asks, tearing into the paper. He blinks again as soon as the gift is unwrapped and he can see what's inside it. "Are these…my own socks?"

"Yes," Harry says apologetically. "I've been wearing them the past few months and I thought you might want them back."

Ron squints at him. "I thought they were mine," Harry clarifies. "But don't worry, I've washed them."

"Thanks, mate," Ron says. "You really shouldn't have."

"I know, I know," Harry says, waving him away. He turns seriously. "Honestly, I'm sorry I couldn't get you a real present. I'll never be able to thank you enough for—"

"Oh, shut up," Ron says. "Whatever it is. Shut it."

"But I—"

"Unless it you were going to get me Cannons tickets. Was it going to be Cannons tickets?"

"When this is over," Harry says, gesturing around him in a way meant to encompass both their tent (today pitched in a sodden field in Cumbria, miles from any other living creature that doesn't have four legs and say 'baa') and also Voldemort and the Death Eaters and everything the past few months has been, "I will buy you a Cannons season ticket every year for the rest of your life. Top Box, and everything."

Ron grins. "I'll be sure to live to a hundred and eighty then, to get my money's worth out of you."

"I'll write it into my will, in case I predecease you," he promises, and both of them laugh even though the chances of that happening are probably too real to risk making a joke. "Hey—you haven't opened your card yet! I bought it specially in that Tesco we snuck into in Shepton Mallet last week."

Ron rips it open. On the front is a cartoon of a boy in a car with TWO TODAY! printed in huge bubble letters. "The car's orange, see?" Harry says. "Also, it was the last birthday card they had that didn't have flowers or hearts on it."

Ron laughs. "This is just too much," he says, pretending to choke back tears of emotion. Then he laughs again.

"What?" asks Harry.

"I was going to make a daft joke about how all my other birthdays pale in comparison to this one," he says. "But, actually, if you think about last year…"

Harry grimaces. "Yeah, maybe it's not as bad as all that… No one's poisoned you yet today!"

"And I'm not dating Lavender, either. It definitely could be worse," Ron says cheerfully. "Although, Hermione's not speaking to me today either, so maybe this is going to become a pattern for my birthdays in the future…"

Harry makes a non-committal noise in his throat and, like she's been summoned by him saying her name, Hermione appears. "Dinner's ready, Harry," she says, addressing him like Ron's not there.

"See?" Ron hisses, as he follows his friend back into the tent. Harry just shrugs again, then moves out of the way so Ron can see their table. Instead of the usual unappetising sludge made from whatever they've managed to scavenge, there's a plain sponge cake with one candle stuck into the middle, and three plates. "Cake?" he asks, surprised. "How'd you manage that?" he asks Harry, but it's Hermione who answers.

"You can't have a birthday without cake. And there's a muggle bakery in the town. So." Her voice is matter-of-fact, almost bored, but there's a hint of smugness about her face as he studies the cake in sheer delight. _Hermione has forgiven him enough to ensure he has cake on his birthday_. That's better than a lifetime of Cannons tickets.

"Hermione, thank—"

"You'd better hurry up and blow out the candle before it drips wax onto the icing," she says, so he does. Harry whoops and cheers like they're at a party in the Gryffindor Common Room, and Hermione gives a few quick, polite claps.

He doesn't dare make a wish, yet. It feels like asking too much. Instead, he cuts the cake into three roughly equal pieces, plates them, and hands out forks. Harry scoops out a forkful of his own piece then raises it high in a toast. "Happy eighteenth, Ron!" he says, and Ron grins back.

"Cheers," he says, raising his own fork high like Harry. He risks a look at Hermione. She has a much smaller forkful, and she lifts it only a couple of inches, giving him a brief nod. Then, like an afterthought, a tiny, but genuine, smile.

And there it is—the birthday wish he didn't dare ask for. Maybe eighteen won't be entirely awful, after all.


	28. Chapter 28

_Just something silly and short for Father's Day being belatedly uploaded onto here. Hello! I'm still alive! Real life is really hard right now, but I'll hopefully have more time for writing soon :)_

* * *

"Oh, my!" he exclaimed, holding the bottle out in front of him. He looked severely at his daughter, bouncing on the bottom of the bed. "Now, Roxy. Have you been tricking the shopkeepers into thinking you're old enough to buy Firewhiskey again? This has got to stop, you know."

Roxanne giggled. "Mummy gotted it!" she explained.

"Mummy _got_ it," Angelina corrected, yawning.

"Mummy's very old," Roxanne continued seriously, and George hastily turned his laugh into a hacking cough.

"Mummy's not _very_ old, Roxy," he said. "Just…_quite_ old."

"Watch it, you," said Angelina. "Or you'll be receiving soap-on-a-rope every Christmas, birthday and Father's Day from here on out." He pulled a face at her, and she rolled her eyes. "Rox, have you given Daddy the card you made?"

Her face lit up. "Wait there," she said sternly, wagging her finger at the two of them. There was something very disconcerting about this gesture of his mother's coming from his three and a half year old, but George managed to keep a straight face until she'd left the room.

He turned to Angelina, who now had her eyes closed again. "Don't go back to sleep," he warned.

"I should be so lucky," she muttered.

He snorted. Neither of them had had what could be described as a full night's sleep for…oh, three and a half years now, and he was beginning to assume that he'd be tired for the rest of his life. That's just how it was, and how it would be. Life changed. But it wasn't all bad.

"Thanks for the Firewhiskey, by the way."

"No worries," she said, smiling up at him whilst keeping her eyes closed. "I figured I'd better get you something I like. Sharing is caring, and all."

"Sure," he said. "Perhaps not at six-oh-three in the morning, though."

"_God_," she groaned. "Is that the time?"

He was saved from answering by Roxanne crashing back into their bedroom, carrying a bright pink envelope. "I made this for you," she said, thrusting it in his face in her enthusiasm. He lifted her high up into the air, making her shriek with glee, and deposited her small body between himself and Angelina in the bed.

"Thank you very much," he said, taking the card from her as Angelina sat up and wrapped her arms around Roxanne. Their daughter snuggled into her, and Angelina deposited a kiss on the top of her head. The moment, so normal, so frequent, caught at something in his throat, and he wanted, in that instant, to develop some kind of Time Turner that would take him back to the days and weeks and months after Fred's death, when life seemed barely worth living.

_Look at this!_ He would shout at his past self. _How can you want to die when one day this will happen?_

Angelina raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly at him, and he nodded back just as imperceptibly. He was okay. Life was okay. More than that, life was _good_. He was happy. "Let's open this card, then!" he said and Roxanne cheered.

The card (homemade) was also bright pink, with HAPY FATTERS DAY written in shaky letters at the top. The 's' was backwards, and the tail of the last 'y' reached all the way down to the bottom of the card, and underneath were three different coloured blobs of varying sizes. "That's Mummy," Roxanne explained, pointing to the purple one. "And that's you," she added, indicating the green blob.

"So this must be you?" George asked, indicating the final red blob. She nodded vigorously. "Wow! I can see the resemblance!" Angelina's lips twitched. "You know," he said seriously, "I think this might be the best drawing I've ever seen."

The funny thing was, he wasn't being funny. It was the truth.


	29. Chapter 29

**I had a request to write a little ficlet about how Harry got the scar Rita says he has during the Quidditch World Cup commentary , and Ginny's reaction to it, so...here we go! Just a little bit of fluffy nonsense :)**

_"The famous lightning scar has company: Potter is sporting a nasty cut over his right cheekbone…"_

The 2014 Quidditch World Cup was not, truly, a holiday for any of the Potters. (Well, except maybe for the kids.) A few days sightseeing around Argentina, falling in love with the country (as they did with every country they visited), then on to the campsite ahead of the final match: Bulgaria versus Brazil. Ginny had to work reporting for the _Prophet_, and quite a few other papers worldwide, too. Her writing was recognised as some of the best in the business; she didn't merely report on what had happened in a match, she made people feel like they were really there, watching the game with her. Her interviews were just as prized - she was able to draw out confessions from her subjects whilst still keeping things light and human. When she'd played Quidditch herself, first for the Harpies then for England, she'd been regarded as one of the best players in the world. But in the few years she'd been working for the paper, she'd won more prizes—and been more proud of them—than in all her time as a Chaser.

Today, she was interviewing Viktor Krum, ahead of the final match in two days' time. His coming out of retirement had shocked the world, and no one had found out the reason behind the decision. _Yet_. Harry had no doubt that Ginny would find out what he was up to. Harry was, ostensibly, working in the morning, too, but on nothing so exciting as Ginny's assignment. He was, however, working in the same place as her for the first time since their Hogwarts days, and this was proving mightily distracting. It was very challenging to get anything done knowing she was close by.

He risked another glance pitchwards, and saw the two of them talking together. Krum appeared to be offering Ginny his broom, and… Harry held his breath. He hadn't seen Ginny fly properly for a few years now, and he missed it. Sure, she knocked around in the garden with the kids, and sometimes flew to work in London, if the weather was nice but she hadn't flown professionally, that he'd seen, in such a long, long time. She appeared to be declining, at first, perhaps out of politeness, but Krum insisted and, even at this distance, Harry could see her resolve weakening. She accepted the broom from him, hovered on it just above ground level, toes skimming the grass, then launched off so fast she was literally just a blur. She swooped and dived, turning and rolling and–

"Of course, we have not wanted to risk another incident such as the Nargle/Snorkalump catastrophe that occurred at Reykjavik's Gobstones Tournament in oh-eight, as I'm sure you can appreciate," intoned the official from the Argentinian Ministry. He was an owlish little man, and his general demeanour made Percy Weasley look relaxed and laid-back. "Security has been absolutely paramount."

Harry had to admit that this is true, and he should know. He had been asked by the Argentinian Council of Magic to offer an impartial overview of the security arrangements. Or rather, they had asked the British Ministry to supply an Auror for this purpose, and as he was planning on attending the game anyway, it was a case of two birds, one stone. He had to admit that it was an extremely easy job: the Argentinian Aurors were second to none, and had done their job so well, he had no suggestions to make. Any possible threat had been anticipated, and eliminated. The hardworking staff had done an entirely commendable job in all ways except one: they had handed him over to possibly the dullest man in the country who was talking him, monotonically, through every single stage of the arrangements, and Harry was so bored he was starting to think it likely he would fall asleep standing up and literally sleepwalk through the rest of his tour.

Ginny's flying proved a more than welcome distraction. Harry wasn't the only person watching her: spectators, arrived early to set up camp were oohing and aahing, whilst those on the pitch itself—members of the Brazilian and Bulgarian teams, groundsmen, even the people selling food from trucks positioned around its perimeter—stopped what they were doing to stare. Harry felt his heart swell with pride as he overheard scraps of praise for her flying. Even when he couldn't understand the actual words of the many languages being spoken, he could gauge the tone of their speakers; sense the amazement in their gestures. Everyone was impressed, and it took all he had in him not to shout out that _"That's my wife! Look! Isn't she incredible?! Don't you _wish_ you were married to her?"_

He thought for a moment she was coming in to land, but it turned out she was just pulling off a particularly spectacular Wronski Feint. He heard gasps from a group of people decked out from head to toe in Brazilian colours standing nearby, and smiled to himself, knowing that their cries will have been echoed by anyone with a view of the pitch. He knew that, ahead of him, the Argentine official was still burbling on, but though his feet were following him dutifully, his eyes were fixed on Ginny, and his heart and mind were up there with her. He missed flying with her; when they got back home he would—

* * *

"And that was when you walked into the tree?" Ginny asked, lips twitching, as she sat on the floor of their tent. Harry, resting on his camp-bed, mumbled something in the affirmative, looking shamefaced. "I thought all those people running up to me when I landed were coming to tell me how wonderfully I was flying," she sighed. "But no. They were there to tell me that my husband had knocked himself unconscious oogling me. _Honestly_."

"You were flying wonderfully," he offered.

"I know I was," she said mildly. "Viktor told me so. Tried to tell me I should come out of retirement, too…" She looked off into the middle distance wistfully for a moment, and Harry caught his breath. "But I told him no," she said firmly. "I love working at the _Prophet_ and writing. I love that I can do it from home, mostly, and spend time with the kids. And, frankly, I'm scared of the sorts of shenanigans you'd get yourself into if I left you unsupervised for ten minutes again!" She eyeballed him, and he shrank back, grateful that Ron and Hermione had taken the children off to play whilst 'Daddy has a little lie down', so that they didn't have to witness this embarrassing scene, on top of the one where he'd been hauled off to the medical tent on a stretcher, blood pouring from the cut on his face, to be examined by a team of Healers clearly flabbergasted by the fact that this feeble specimen was the person who had defeated Lord Voldemort.

"I'm fine, honestly," he said. "It was just a little bump. I've had worse."

"I know," she replied. She'd been there for most of them, too. "The Healers have said you'll be absolutely fine after a little rest—no long term damage at all, except maybe a scar where that branch cut you."

"Well, it won't be the first," he laughed, then quickly sobered. "I've no doubt it'll be reported by my good old pal Rita as evidence that there's some new threat coming because something terrible has attacked me. Do you remember that time I broke my leg tripping over the cat and she convinced the world I'd been kneecapped by some Death Eater wannabe? The Ministry were denying that one for months!"

"I do," Ginny said gravely. "We'll have to head her off at the pass, so she doesn't cause mass panic about a threat here. Hmm."

"We could tell her it was just a tree," Harry suggested.

"Nah, she won't buy it. I know! We'll tell her I cursed you. She'll love that—marital strife _and_violence. She'll have a conniption!" she said, brightening considerably.

"An excellent plan," nodded Harry. "Now, when exactly do you want to go about cursing me? Because I'm thinking, the kids will be off with Ron and Hermione for at least another hour, so before you get to it, we've got plenty of time to—"

"Oh no!" said Ginny, shaking her head firmly. "You're supposed to be resting! Lying down!"

"I don't propose getting up…"

"And _I_," she continued. "Have an interview to conduct. It got interrupted, earlier." She stood up, heading for the entrance of the tent. "Be good, though, and don't walk into any more trees, and I'll make sure to use a _nice_ curse, later." She wiggled her fingers at him.

"Wicked witch!" he called after her retreating figure—and she wiggled her bum at him, too.


End file.
